


when it all feels too big (and i feel too small)

by schantzscribbles



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), CW pregnancy, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Evan Hansen is a girl, Evan is a gender neutral name, Fluff and Angst, Genderbending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, TW self-harm, Teen Pregnancy, Treebros, Unplanned Pregnancy, girl!evan, kind of, uh oh accidentally made it a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schantzscribbles/pseuds/schantzscribbles
Summary: A lot can happen over the summer. Seems cliche to say it, but for Evan Hansen, a lot did happen over the summer. The summer before her senior year, to be specific. Now as the school year starts, she's quickly running out of options to hide her predicament and must face the consequences. But even with everything out in the open, nothing is resolved, and she's gotta figure out how to pick up all the broken pieces and put them back together again.
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Comments: 53
Kudos: 97





	1. prologue

_This is it._

My hands sting with every branch I grab, pulling myself up the tree with urgency. Sap is sticking between my fingers and on my palms. Needles scratch at every bit of skin exposed. Through the needles, I see blue sky, but everything feels dark and gray around me. The slight breeze feels like pounding wind against my ears. I can only see the world through a pinhole.

_My world is ending._

My cheeks sting, saturated with the salt from my tears. I could be on the ground right now, doing my job, following orders. I could be documenting growth of indigenous plants or yelling at teenagers to get back on the designated trails, but I’m here, climbing a tree in great emotional distress.

_I fucked up beyond repair._

I stop climbing, find myself a branch to idle on. I have one arm wrapped around the trunk of the tree, my feet surprisingly steady on the branch. The ground seems so far away. I’m not sure how far it is exactly, I was never good at measuring distances just by looking at them. I tear my eyes away from the ground, peering out at the rest of the park. I’m far enough up the tree to have a good visual of the woods, but there are still pines taller than the one I’m in. The world is different up here, calmer.

_Everything feels lighter up here._

Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, staring up through the pines as too perfect clouds lounge through the sky. I struggle to breath, the wind having been violently knocked from my lungs. I discover quickly that I’m not paralyzed, I can move. I just don’t want to move. Everything hurts, but my left arm hurts the most. It’s definitely broken.

I don’t scream.

I don’t cry.

I reach for my phone, but stop, grabbing my walkie talkie instead. Mom wouldn’t pick up a call, and the only other person I can call, well, he doesn’t need to know about this. He doesn’t need to know about why I did it. I page my supervisor and continue to watch the clouds above.

_The world remains unbothered._


	2. chapter one

I was always under the expectation that the first day of senior year would be a breeze. I should be relaxed and excited, completely overcome with senioritis. Teachers respect seniors. Freshman admire seniors. Parents are more lenient now as we’re “almost adults.” Every teen movie I watched as a kid convinced me that senior year would be my year, but now it doesn’t feel like that.

At 7:30 in the morning, the halls are already loud and crowded. Kids flock in the school’s common area and lunchroom, telling stories of their summers and already breaking up into preestablished cliques from the years before. Lockers are being frantically decorated as if they’re being displayed on MTV Cribs (Hello, MTV, welcome to my crib! Here is my favorite magnetic dry erase board!). I find my own locker. Every locker is labeled alphabetically with papers that have our names and some cheesy, childish clipart on it. I open it and lean inside, hiding my face from everyone else in the hall. A wave of nausea rolls over me.

_Don’t puke in your locker. Don’t puke in your locker. Don’t puke in your locker._

Maybe I should just go home.

Today is not going to be a good day.

The clanging of metal from my locker door forces me to emerge. The urgent abrasiveness of it causes worry to fill my brain as to who it may be, but when I shut my locker door, I’m met by Jared Kleinman, holding a thermos like it were a club. A breath of relief escapes my lips—it’s not who I thought it was—but a whole new brand of worry invades me.

“So, tell me,” Jared, a close “family” friend, teases, “what’s it like being the first person to break her arm jerking off the FFA kids?”

FFA: Future Farmers of America. I was in it for one year.

“Very funny,” I mumble, picking at the plaster of my cast. White dust sticks to the sweat between my fingers. “That’s… that’s not what happened.”

“I can picture it already: you’re at one of those FFA conferences about irrigation systems or whatever, and before your team presents, you irrigate their systems!”

“That’s not what happened, obviously,” I snap, slouching over myself. “I was climbing a tree, at work, and the branch it… broke.”

“You fell out of a tree? Like, an acorn?”

“Well, I was working as an assistant park ranger… at Ellison Park. I’m kind of an expert on trees now, and even several indigenous bush species.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, a snide smile on his face. “You really did jerk off the FFA.”

I swallow that hard lump in my throat and start fiddling with my skirt. The waistband is tight, tighter than it had been at the beginning of summer. Tight like the cast on my arm. Tight like my trachea, desperate to take in air. Everything feels too tight.

“Hey, Connor!” Jared chimes, tearing my eyes away from my skirt to see the quiet, lanky boy stride past. He stops, turns ever so slightly, peering at Jared through his long, curly hair. It’s ratty and tangled. He probably hasn’t washed it in a week. Things have gotten bad. Was it my fault? “Love the new hair! Very school shooter chic.”

Connor turns a little more to face Jared. His steely blue eyes are wide and alert, lips slightly parted. Still slouching over, he looks like a deer in headlights. The look melts away quickly, though, as he stands to his full height and fully faces Jared, pressing his lips tightly together.

“I was kidding,” Jared says, almost annoyed. “Just a joke.”

“Oh, yeah,” Connor says softly, shifting on his feet. “No, it’s funny… I’m laughing, can’t you tell?”

Jared’s cockiness and annoyance wavers a bit. His mocking smile is wiped off his face.

“Am I not laughing hard enough for you?” Connor’s voice grows, nearing a shout. He takes a step closer to Jared, eyes trained on the short and stout boy. Before Connor can get any closer, Jared laughs and steps aside, speeding down the hall.

“You’re such a freak!” he calls out as he leaves.

I bite my lip, the edges of my lips curling upward against my will. I’m staring at Connor with wide eyes. A giggle escapes and Connor’s attention snaps to me. My feet are cemented to the ground and I can’t move. I wrap my arms around my middle and bite my lip harder.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he asks breathlessly. The tip of his nose is red and twitching. I know that look. He’s about to cry.

“I’m not,” I stammer. “I didn’t, I mean—”

“Stop fucking laughing at me!”

“Connor!”

“You think I’m a freak?”

“N-no! That’s not—”

“I’m not a freak, Evan!”

He’s really close now. His face is inches from mine. His eyes are red and bloodshot, tears quickly forming in the corners. His chin is poorly shaven with dusting of straggly whiskers. The smell of weed and pine deodorant waft off of him. My stomach turns and flips at the scent and before I know it, I’ve puked all over our shoes. Connor’s momentum is broken. He steps back in surprise and disgust.

Great, now we’re both crying.

And everyone is staring.

I’m even more frozen than I was before. Vomit soaks through my Keds and into my socks. My ankles, also covered in vomit, start to itch. Connor got it worse, completely covered from his knees to his feet. His mouth hangs open and his shoulders rise with each deep breath he takes. Wiping the tears from his face, he looks at me. His expression is unreadable.

“Oh my god,” I mumble through sobs. “I’m so so—”

Connor grabs my wrist and pulls me down the hall, his boots squeaking against the linoleum. I try to keep up with his long strides, fully aware that every pair of eyes is on us. A few kids even have their phones up, undoubtedly filming the entire thing. I wonder what name they’ll give me. Connor was already labeled as “School Shooter.” I’d probably end up being “Puke Girl,” but that will probably evolve into something worse.

Connor pulls me into the boy’s bathroom, and I don’t protest. It’s better not to. In his rough and graceless way, he pushes me up against the counter and starts ripping paper towels out of the dispenser. A boy exits a stall in the middle of this, smirking towards me and making a rude gesture.

“Nice job, Connor,” he laughs, slapping Connor on the back before leaving. Connor goes rigid, standing in a trance for several long seconds. Against my better judgment, I reach out, lightly placing a hand on his shoulder. He yanks it away and glares at me.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses, but softens. “Sit on the counter.”

“What?”

“Sit on the counter, Evan.”

I hoist myself onto the counter, my skirt digging tighter into my waist. The boy’s bathroom isn’t much different from the girl’s: it’s dirtier, smells faintly of cigarettes, and there isn’t a “sanitary napkin” dispenser, but that’s it. There’s graffiti on the walls, stalls, and mirror. It’s a gallery of dicks, boobs, and phone numbers. My stomach flips again and I curl over, hand on my mouth. Connor reacts immediately, pulling over the trash can. One hand is one my shoulder, the other on my back. I retch. Nothing comes out.

The warning bell rings, but neither of us moves. Five minutes until the start of the day.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asks quietly, handing me wet paper towels.

No. I’m not going to be alright. If I could just open my mouth, tell him the truth, then maybe I would. But maybe that would make things worse.

“Uh, yeah,” I lie, wiping off my shoes. They were new.

Connor narrows his eyes, studying me, but he pulls away. He starts to clean himself up, but his jeans need a full laundry service and not just water and paper towels. He hands me more paper towels, dry this time. I know my face is bright red. I can barely breathe. Maybe I will puke again.

“That’s a lie,” he says plainly, though minutes have passed. The tardy bell rings. We’re late to our first class.

“What?” I ask, fidgeting with my cast.

“You lied,” he repeats, facing me. “What’s wrong, Evan?”

“Nothing! Everything’s fine.”

“Is that why you stopped talking to me?”

“What? This has nothing to do with you…”

“So, there is something wrong then?”

“Connor, I have to get to class.”

I grab my backpack and hop off the counter. Connor grabs my arm as I try to leave.

“Why’d you stop talking to me?” He asks again. It comes out in a hoarse whisper. Tears are in his eyes again, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. My trachea is closing again, and I can’t breathe. Everything is getting tighter, tighter, tighter. July was the last time we talked, before the tree, before I broke my arm.

But after the test came back positive. I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know.

“I’m pregnant,” I murmur before I can stop myself. The world closes in. My body feels like it’s on fire. I can’t breathe. I cradle my arm close, hunched over.

“What?” he asks, but not in disbelief. He didn’t hear what I said. Maybe I can keep it that way, say something else, change the subject. But my mouth moves faster than my mind.

“I’m pregnant,” I say louder, pressing myself against the wall and sinking down to the floor. Connor releases a shuddering breath but doesn’t say anything. Slowly, he kneels down next to me, sitting up against the wall. A painful minute goes by and it feels like a whole month. I finally speak up again. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

“Did you want to tell me at all?” he asks, staring off into the distance. I notice more of the new, small details on his face. Dark circles surround his eyes. His lips are chapped and chewed up. He’s a lot paler than he was at the beginning of summer. I think again: was it my fault?

“Honestly,” I breathe heavily, trying to work through the words, “no.”

“Then what were you going to do, if it were mine? I mean… it has to be, right?”

“Yes, it is—they are? I don’t, don’t… know. I mean, it is yours. I just—”

“Evan, breathe.”

He grips my arm, softly, gently. He still doesn’t look at me, just stares ahead with a thousand yard gaze. He does his best to hide it, but he’s breathing harder than I am. I catch my own breath.

“I haven’t even told my mom,” I admit, curling up and leaning into Connor. He accepts my advances, lets me melt into him. For a brief second, I feel like it’s May again, and we’re curled up in his basement watching movies. But this isn’t May, or even June, and we aren’t comfortable in his basement. This is mid-August on the floor of the boy’s bathroom.

“So, what? That makes you, like, two months? Eight weeks?”

“Ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks,” he repeats, squeezing his eyes shut and doing the math. It’s not that hard. It was our first time. Our only time.

Ten weeks is a milestone. At least, that’s what all the websites said. The book hidden under my mattress states the same thing. The embryo is now a fetus. All of its organs are formed, they just need to grow. The skeletal structure is forming, and they have joints! It’s already moving around freely. And it has fingernails! Jesus Christ.

“What are you going to do?”

“I missed the window for the pill… and I can’t… I can’t…”

“You don’t have to,” Connor reassures, but there’s strain in his voice.

“I can’t go through the procedure,” I finally spit out. “Mentally, emotionally… I can’t do it.”

Connor nods slowly, releasing another wavering breath. He lets go of my arm, and I think he’s going to leave, but instead he takes my hand in his. He pulls me closer, the smell of him both comforting and nauseating to my newly sensitive nose. His face presses against mine.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks.

“I just need you to be here,” I answer. “Even if it’s just right here, right now.”

“I’m here.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, whispering so quietly that I can’t make out a single word. For just this moment, everything feels alright.


	3. chapter two

But that moment barely lasts, and everything isn’t alright.

In a matter of seconds after my confession that a janitor comes bumbling in with a cart. His headphones are in, ultimately oblivious to us at first. And he’s pissed, ranting up a storm to whoever is on the other end of the call.

“8:00 in the fucking morning and they page me to clean up vomit!” he yells, shoving his cart through the door. “I can’t fucking believe these kids.”

The janitor notices me and Connor, shooting us a glare through thick eyebrows. He doesn’t say anything, but we push ourselves up and hurry out the door. Connor is still holding onto my hand, but this time I lead. The hallways are empty. It’s already ten minutes into first period. Down the hall, a teacher exits a room. I drop Connor’s hand a turn the other way, trying to avoid any further confrontation, but Connor follows.

I just have to get to my first class and make it through the day.

But Connor still follows.

It turns out we have first period together.

So, Connor and I arrive at our creative writing class, awkwardly standing squished in the door frame as Mrs. Edison hands out the syllabus. All eyes turn to us and the room goes silent. I feel like I can’t move again, but Connor pushes past me and beelines for one of the only two seats available in the room. Surprise, they’re both in the front. I stumble over to the open desk next to him.

“Nice of you to join us,” Mrs. Edison sighs. “Mr. Murphy, I know you, but you are…?”

“Evan Hansen,” I mumble, nervously clicking the pen that’s found its way into my hand.

“Evan Hansen,” she repeats. “I expected a boy.”

Everyone does. Even my parents expected a boy. The doctor misread the sonogram. So, imagine the shock when I was born. My mom has a box of cards at home from her pregnancy, almost all of them reading “It’s a boy!” No, it’s not!

“Well, you two are late. Here’s a syllabus for each of you, and hopefully we’ll see you on time tomorrow.”

She continues as if our disruption never happened, flying through the syllabus in record speed just to assign us our first assignment: a story based off of a picture. We each get a copy of the picture, poorly exposed and almost impossible to tell what it is. It’s a tree. Specifically, the trunk of a tree. From behind it, a pale arm reaches out. There’s no body attached to it, no person. Just a hand reaching out from behind a tree. Besides me, Connor is already drawing over the image with a ballpoint pen.

There are no further instructions other than “interpret this how you will,” and “at least a page long.” I could write so many stories about arms and trees. I’ve already made up a few in my head. I’ve even said a few out loud. There are so many ways you can break an arm.

But which one will I tell?

I start jotting down ideas, trying to keep them as separated from my experience as possible, but everything keeps circling back to July. I can’t help but feel like I’m back there in Ellison Park. The ground is hard, but the grass is soft. The sky is bright, but the sun is blinding. Nothing has changed, but everything is different. I scratch out everything I’ve written.

_I don’t want to write about myself. I don’t want to write about myself. I don’t want to write about myself._

Maybe I can make up some story about an alien ship crash landing and this is the last remaining being from the crash?

That’s stupid.

I glance over at Connor. He’s stopped drawing, but he isn’t writing either. Instead, he twists his fingers and wrings his hands. His nails are freshly painted black, the polish messy, but not chipped yet. My eyes travel up his arms, examining the old cargo jacket he’s wearing. It’s been dyed black then haphazardly splashed with bleach. It was green when we found, hidden in the back of a thrift store among an abundance of discarded military surplus. That was back in May.

He’s staring back at me. I avert my eyes, bring my arms in closer, making myself smaller. My cast is a shield over my abdomen. My right hand pulls at my earlobe. The clock on the wall ticks in the nearly silent room. Ten more minutes to the end of the class. Luckily, Edison clears her throat and gives a conclusive spiel to end the class. The ten minutes fly by. The bell rings.

“Evan, wait,” Connor says just loud enough for me to hear. Every atom in my body wants to sprint out the door. I would sprint through the day if I could. But I fight the urge and wait for Connor. He motions for my cast and I notice the Sharpie in his hand. I hand my arm over, he tugs me closer. Uncapping the pen, he writes his name. Each letter is long, taking up the width of the cast, but they’re done with a quick yet steady precision. By the end of it, his name covers my entire cast. He then turns my arm over, palm up, and writes, very small, “room 110 @ 3:05.”

He let’s go of my arm, caps his pen, and leaves without a word.

I’m the last one out of the room.

/\/\/\

It’s weird how a day can go by so fast and so slow. I sit still as everything rushes past me. My binder and backpack fill up with papers and packets. People seem to run past me at light speed in the halls. Teachers are unintelligible. I’m completely on autopilot.

I try several times to break my trance, captain my own ship, but each measly attempt is a failure. I tried asking a question in class: choked on my words and stuttered for five minutes. I tried asking acquaintances to sign my cast: Alana Beck told me how her grandmother died. I tried eating lunch in the lunchroom: only to hide away in the library. Connor was there, tucked away in a corner reading, not eating anything. When he caught sight of me, he looked up from his book and didn’t look away for the whole period. No approach, no attempt to speak to me, he just sat and watched.

I try not to think too much of it. It’s not every day that you learn you impregnated a girl that hasn’t spoken to you since July. It isn’t his fault. It’s nobody’s fault.

School ends before I know it and I find myself standing in room 110 at 3:03 p.m. I have nowhere else to be, my therapy appointments having been switched to Fridays instead of Mondays. Mom has work and class, too, so she wouldn’t care where I am. I could disappear for three days and not set foot home and she probably wouldn’t notice. I’ve done it before.

The sound of a door clicking shut grabs my attention. Next thing I know, I’m in Connor’s arms and his face is in the crook of my neck.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he breathes, his voice wavering with hurt. There’s nothing romantic about the embrace. No passionate kissing. No playful nipping. He just holds me tightly. Several long seconds pass, then he composes himself. “Why didn’t you tell me, Evan?”

The dams break and I’m sobbing.

And it’s ugly.

I’m sure that nothing I say makes sense. I’m just a jumbled mess of tears, snot, and sounds. At some point through my incoherent rambling, Connor sits me down and wipes my face down with a tissue. His hands shake. I can’t tell if it’s his normal shakiness from his medications or if he’s shaking because of stress. He sets him palm against my cheek, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb.

“I didn’t want to make your life harder,” I finally muster, gripping a wad of tissues tightly. “You have so much going on, and I’m not healthy, and then a baby thrown in—I couldn’t do that to you.”

“What were you going to do then?” he asks.

I had a plan. I knew what I was going to do. Then my plan didn’t work.

“Move in with my dad,” I blurt out the first thing I can think of. “My mom wouldn’t be able to help me support a baby.”

A lie and a truth.

“So, you’d just leave everything here behind?”

“I don’t really have anything here.”

_Ouch._

Connor retracts, breathes in through his nose, nostrils flaring.

“So,” he says lowly, “what did you do to your arm?”

“Oh.” I’m surprised by the question. “I fell… out of a tree.”

His eyebrows furrow together, confused and disbelieving. The look on his face reads the same as everyone else: really? You fell out of tree?

“That’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” he says. “At the park?”

I nod. Connor leans forward, head in hands. His shoulders start shaking as he starts to cry. I grip the edge of my chair, try not to reach out. I don’t want to upset him further. I can’t upset him further.

_This is all my fault. This is all my fault. This is all my fault._

“Oh my God,” he gasps, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I can’t do this, Evan! I can’t raise a fucking baby!”

“I know,” I say meekly. He looks up at, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“My parents are going to fucking lose it.”

“You don’t have to tell them—”

“But it’s my kid. I’m not going to pretend it’s not and act like nothing happened! You’ll get bigger and people will say things and they’ll connect the dots! It’s going to happen!”

“They wouldn’t connect it to you. It could be anyone’s—”

“Stop.”

A deep breath.

“Zoe knows about us,” he states. “Mom and Larry don’t, but Zoe knows.”

_No. No. No._

My breath catches. She wasn’t supposed to know. Nobody was supposed to know. It’s not that Connor and I were ashamed of each other. It’s not like we didn’t care about each other. It was just… new, for both of us. People talk. The community is small. We didn’t want anyone but each other to know about us.

“Did you tell her?” I ask, picking nervously at my cast again.

“No, of course not! But… she’s smart, too smart sometimes… You stopped talking to me and she noticed that something was different about me… She asked questions, I didn’t say anything. But she found one of your books. I left it in the living room. She was cleaning up and recognized it wasn’t one of ours.”

“That could be anyone’s book.”

“You labeled it: ‘If found, please return to Evan Sadie Hansen.’”

Of course. Tears again.

_Tears stupid tears._

That’s a song, I think. Daniel Johnston?

Connor likes Daniel Johnston.

“I don’t know if I can give you what you need,” Connor says, pulling at his hair. “But—”

“I’m not ask—”

“Let me finish. But I’m here for you… and whoever they will be. I just… I have to work on myself… Things haven’t been good—it’s not your fault—I just have things I need to take care of.”

“Okay.”

He scoots closer to me, putting a hand on my knee, leaning close.

“I missed you so much though, Ev,” he whispers. I lean in, our foreheads touching together.

“I missed you, too, Connie.”

I lean in closer, pursing my lips. I want him so bad. I need him back in my life. I should’ve trusted him. I should’ve trusted myself. I should’ve told him.

He puts a finger to my lips.

“I can’t,” he says. “Not now. Not yet. Just… please have patience? Don’t pine or anything, but… I’ll come around. I want you around, though. I do.”

“Okay.”

He squeezes my knee then pull away. He starts to leave, but stops in the doorway, turning back to face me.

“You should tell your mom,” he says. “You’ll have to eventually.”

Yeah, I guess I should do that.


	4. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like dialogue, because there's a lot of it. Oops.

Mom won’t get home until 9 o’clock, but considering her track record, she’ll probably be later than that. So, I take a shower, I do my homework, clean the kitchen, refill the hummingbird feeder. Any menial task to keep me busy until she comes home, and I have to tell her. Unfortunately, all of that only gets me to 5:45 and I don’t know what to do. I find myself sitting in the backyard with my phone burning in my hand.

_Do I text him?_

There’s a hummingbird fluttering by the feeder. I can’t tell what’s moving faster: its wings or my heart. The plastic of the old lawn chair envelopes me as I sink down into it, my legs dangling into the grass. The hummingbird flits away as a squirrel scares it off. I reach out with my leg and shake the bottom of the feeder, scaring off the squirrel. Leave the birds alone, bastard.

I don’t get out much. I love the outdoors, but besides the job at Ellison, my backyard is as good as it gets. It’s small and patchy with a wild cherry tree tucked in the corner of the chain link fence. A collection of flowerpots surround the back porch, if you can call it a porch. It’s just a lopsided concrete slab under the back screen door. The flowers are neglected and wilted, just barely hanging onto dear life. I haven’t even looked at them in a month.

My heart beats faster. Blood pounds in my ears.

I call my mom.

Surprisingly, she answers.

“Hey!” she greets cheerfully, though her voice is a little frantic and worn out. “How are you. Honey? How was school?”

“I’m fine, it was fine,” I say. “Um… when will you be home?”

“My shift is almost over, but I have class, so probably around 9. Why? Everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything is fine. I was just wondering if, I don’t know, maybe you could skip class and we could get dinner?”

No response for several seconds.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Evan, I don’t know if I can do tonight.”

“Please. Just do this one thing for me.”

I feel her sigh through the phone. She’s probably shaking her head in the melodramatic way that she does. She pauses for a few seconds, then finally responds.

“I’ll call my professor and come pick you up, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll be ready.”

I can’t help but smile to myself for the first time in weeks.

/\/\/\

Sweet and Flour is our go-to restaurant. It’s pretty much everybody’s go-to restaurant in Rochester. It’s a little bakery-restaurant fusion hidden Uptown among the redbrick boutiques. Mom has been taking me here since I was a child and it never failed to put a smile on my face.

I sink my teeth into a maple donut before I even touch my dinner. It’s my favorite item on the menu. All the waitresses know that no matter what I get, I get a maple donut to go with it. It never fails to cheer me up, even if just a little bit. And that’s when Mom knows something is wrong.

“You only ever eat the donut first when something is bothering you,” she says, absentmindedly swirling a fry in their lemon aioli. Sometimes she has no idea what’s going on with me. Other times it’s like she’s reading my mind.

I shove the rest of the donut into my mouth. I won’t have to talk for at least another minute.

I’m making this more difficult that it needs to be.

I swallow. I choke. I take a drink of water. I swallow again.

“Is it too late to be homeschooled?” I ask sheepishly. I’ve asked the question nearly every year. It’s more of a joke between us at this point, but there’s a small part of me that really means it this time.

She just laughs it off, eats her fry.

“Was it really that bad?” she asks with a soft smile.

_Oh, if only she knew._

“It was… a lot. I mean, I talked to some people… I like my classes.”

“That’s a good start!” she exclaims a little too loudly. The restaurant is fairly empty. Nobody reacts to the outburst, but it still feels like everyone is watching. “Did anyone sign your cast?”

I slowly lift my arm up to reveal Connor’s marvelous penmanship.

It’s like a Jenny Holzer piece.

_A sincere effort is all you can ask._

Connor likes Jenny Holzer.

“Connor? You’ve never mentioned a Connor,” she says. “Oh! Is this the Murphy boy? You two had several classes in elementary school.”

I nod patiently. She flips my arm over and sees the memo he wrote. She makes a face.

“What happened in room 110?”

“I was just, uh, helping Connor with some homework,” I say, averting my eyes. “We have creative writing together and he wanted to bounce some ideas after school.”

“I always heard he was a problem child: lots of behavioral issues,” she says with a faraway look in her eyes, disregarding what I said. “But kids grow up.”

I really don’t want to discuss Connor’s “behavioral issues.”

I really don’t want to discuss Connor.

But I’m going to have to discuss Connor.

“He’s actually really nice,” I find myself saying. The most basic of compliments. Anyone can be _nice_. “I mean, we’ve had classes together and he’s creative and smart and, well, yeah.”

Suddenly, there’s a smirk on her face and glimmer in her eye. I’m in for it now. There’s no going back from here. She’s leaning forward. She’s putting her hair behind her ears.

“What else?” she asks with a cheeky smile.

I may as well just combust right here.

“No, no!” I gasp, slamming my hands a bit too hard on the table. “It’s not like that! We’re just…”

_What are we? What do I say to her now? Oh, he’s just my baby daddy. That’s classy._

“Just…?” she presses.

“We had a fling over the summer,” I mumble, really quiet, really fast. But she hears. She has ears like a bat. Her entire body language changes. She is no longer the giddy best friend talking about school crushes. She is the shocked mother about to pull secrets out of her daughter.

My tongue seems to be living its own sentient life today.

“Oh? You had a fling?” she questions. “And you didn’t tell me?”

I shrug awkwardly, pulling at the hem of my tee shirt. I may be free of the skirt and the polo I wore to school today, but everything still feels too uncomfortable, too tight. My throat feels too tight. I can barely breath.

“It wasn’t anything serious, Mom. It was just a couple of months.”

April to mid-July. Almost four months of us without anyone knowing.

“We could’ve had him over for dinner,” she says, shaking her head and eating another fry.

Of course, that’s her response. The subject is dropped. We eat our meals. Conversation stays light and airy. She tells me stories from work, almost all of them bordering on too much information. I can just sit back, smile and nod, interject every now and then. Conversation is easy when the other person likes to talk. We finish our meals and leave, Mom leading the way with a smile on her face, me slinking behind with my head hanging low.

Getting in the car feels like a prison sentence. Mom and I are now only inches away from each other, trapped in a metal box. It doesn’t help that she’s a little loose when it comes to steering. Every bump and pothole on the road is amplified. Every turn feels like a wave pushing me in every which direction.

“Stop the car,” I shout, unbuckling my seatbelt. Mom looks at me confused, but the car screeches to a stop, sending me lurching forward. I throw the door open, tumbling onto the shoulder of the road. The reuben I had for dinner makes a reappearance.

Mom is at my side in an instant, her hand on my forehead, checking for a fever. A tissue practical materializes in her hand and she’s wiping my chin clean. Worry feels her blue eyes as her eyebrows knit together. She looks tired, overworked.

“Are you okay?” she asks, helping me up to my feet. “You don’t have a fever. Was it something you ate?”

_Do I tell her now?_

_No._

“I think it was just the reuben,” I mumble, climbing back into the car. She kneels down, looking up at me. She knows something is off. She’s known this whole time.

“You can tell me anything,” she says softly, taking my hand. “Is it your medication? Do you need a refill?”

“No, I’m good… Can we just go home?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course.”

The rest of the ride home is quiet, the radio playing softly. I don’t know any of the songs, but Mom hums a long to each one. She’s always prided herself in being “in” with trends and pop culture. She’s maybe a little too much in with pop culture, if you ask me. It’s always weird going places when your mom dresses younger than you.

Mom announces she’s going to study when we arrive home. It’s not like she needed to. If she’s not at work or in class, she’s holed up in the study on the old desktop. Sure, it gives me more freedom and reign around the house, but a house this small shouldn’t feel so big, so empty. Two people can only fill so much space.

But three would just be too much.

I slam the door to the study open in a panic, standing frozen in the doorway. Mom turns to face me, confused and annoyed. She moves her mouth. She’s saying something to me, but I don’t hear it. I can’t hear it. All I hear is my rapid breathing echoing through my head.

“Mom, I have something to tell you,” I say in one short breath. She’s crosses her legs, tilts her head. She’s listening. Several beats pass. The words sit in the back of my throat.

Just say them.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out. Where I was quiet and sunken saying them to Connor, I’m loud and anxious telling them to my mother. The words are nearly shouted when they leave my mouth.

Her mouth falls open and she looks away from me.

“I’m so sorry.” The words pour out of me with no end in sight. “I should’ve told you sooner. I let you down and I lied to you! You don’t deserve a daughter like me. I’m sorry I’m such an embarrassment.”

“You aren’t an embarrassment, Evan,” she says, taking my hand and pulling me towards her. “It’s just… a lot to take in. What do you mean you lied?”

“I’ve been hiding it,” I sob, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’ve known since July.”

“July?”

“I think I’m somewhere around ten weeks, but I could be a little off.”

She runs her fingers over my cast. Tears bead up in her eyes.

“You didn’t tell me,” she says softly. It’s a statement. She has to accept that her daughter didn’t tell her something so big, so important.

“I was scared! And, and you’re never here—”

“That’s not true!”

We’re both crying now. Mom’s voice is full of anger and hurt. The one thing I was supposed to do as her daughter was trust her, and I failed.

“I’m scared,” I whisper, gripping her hand. She pulls me down to my knees in front of her, brushes my bangs to the side, and looks me in the eye.

“I know, baby,” she says. “I’m scared, too. I was scared when I found out I was pregnant with you, and your dad and I had been together for a while. No one is ever ready for something this big. Do you plan to…”

She let’s the question hang. It’s open-ended, but it all implies the same thing.

“I want to keep it,” I murmur, solidifying my future with five words. “I know that’s not the right answer, but I can’t—”

“There’s no right answer, honey. You have to do what you’re comfortable doing. It’s going to be hard, we have to get you doctors appointments and work with your therapist a bit more, but we’re going to get through this, okay?”

“You don’t hate me?”

“I could never hate you. I made you!”

She laughs through the last statement and I can’t help but laugh with her.

“So, this boy, Connor,” she continues. “Is he the father?”

“Yeah, he is,” I say. I’m pulling at the hem of my tee shirt again. It was already stretched out and warped before today. “And he knows. I told him today after I… sort of… puked on him?”

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. How did he react?”

“He’s… scared. Probably still processing it. I, um, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay, I won’t ask anymore.”

A breath escapes me. A weight is somewhat lifted off my shoulders. Well, maybe not so much as lifted, but I at least have someone to help me with the weight.

“Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to be okay, sweetheart.”

Mom squeezes my shoulder and turns back to the computer, mentioning appointments and vitamins and diets. It’s a lot to take in, but at least I don’t have to do it alone.


	5. chapter four

The worst thing about being seventeen is being on the cusp of adolescence and adulthood is doctor’s appointments. You’re almost old enough to vote, you’re on the road to graduation and ready to go to college, yet you’re still with the same pediatrician you’ve always had, sitting in a waiting room with cartoon animals and a table full of games, puzzles, and coloring books. Today, I am not in that waiting room. I am in an adult waiting room.

And to be quite frank, I miss the cartoon animals.

The Ob-Gyn waiting room is sterile: white with uncomfortable blue chairs. Posters of babies in different developmental stages cover the walls. A few abstract paintings of flowers try to provide diversity, but with little to no avail. There are only a few women in the waiting room, all older and more pregnant than I am. Two have their husbands with them, the remaining is alone. I have my mom.

“Busy for a Thursday morning,” I whisper to Mom and she smirks. She’s been quiet ever since Monday. Kind, loving, but very quiet. I understand why.

I don’t have to wait much longer when they call my name.

“Evan Hansen? Right this way, please.”

I get up to follow, holding onto my Mom’s hand, but the nurse speaks again.

“Your mother will come back in a bit, we have some exams to perform first.”

Oh, great.

First, she takes my weight, height, blood pressure, asking questions about family medical history. It’s the usual routine. Dr. Sherman, my therapist, works through a satellite wing of the hospital, so every Friday before I see him, a nurse goes through all of this. I’m pretty much an expert at answering the basic medical questionnaire.

No, I don’t smoke.

No, I don’t drink.

No, I don’t do drugs.

_Is there a possibility you may be pregnant?_

Well, that’s why I’m here.

Then, she takes my blood, which takes longer than it needed to. I bite my lip and look away, not excited for the needle to stick me. The nurse ties a band around my upper arm, and I jerk away before she can get any further. A million apologies later, it takes her four times to stick me right. By the time it’s over, I feel like my soul has long since flown out of my body.

Next, there’s the physical exam.

I’m not going to talk about that.

Finally, the ultrasound. This is what every woman waits for right?

Why am I not excited?

The nurse lets me grab Mom from the waiting room, then I find myself lying down on the bed with my shirt rolled up. The nurse leaves and then enters an ultrasound technician. She greets me with a warm smile before setting up the technology.

“You ready?” she asks. I give a nervous nod and she laughs lightly. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. It’ll just be a little cold.”

A little cold is an understatement. She squeezes the gel onto my stomach, I can’t help but jerk. It’s freezing. Mom giggles and squeeze my hand. The technician pushes the wand into my stomach and an image appears.

“There’s your baby!” the technician exclaims.

The image is black and white and fuzzy. Among the static of the background, there’s the very beginnings of a baby, small and still kidney bean shaped. I can clearly make out its head, body, arms, and legs. The nurse moves the wand, getting several different angles before returning to the original position.

“Do you want to hear the heartbeat?”

I find myself nodding way faster than I should.

A fast and rhythmic drumming fills the room. It doesn’t sound much different from my own heartbeat in my ears. Too fast. Too anxious. Tears well up in my eyes.

“Is it supposed to be that fast?” I ask, digging my nails in the vinyl of the seat.

“Yes, this is totally normal for a fetus at ten weeks,” the technician affirms. “You have nothing to worry about. Everything looks and sounds good. I’d say you’re a little underweight for where you should be, but that’s common in adolescent pregnancies. I’ll print some photos out for you, you can clean up, and then we’re done!”

“Can you print out two sets of photos?”

“Absolutely.”

Mom gives me a look, confused.

“For Connor,” I say quietly.

/\/\/\

Second period is well underway by the time I return to school, but I don’t head to class. Instead, I hunt through the hallways, eyeing lockers until I find the one I’m looking for: Connor Murphy. The nametag was still up, his sporting a graphic of ruler with sunglasses. What grade are we in again?

I grab an envelope with ultrasound pictures, a sheet of loose leaf, and a pen from my backpack. I nearly drop the pen, already coated in sweat. My hands get too sweaty. I’m not sure if the gesture is romantic, polite, or crazy, but I write three words:

_Here’s our baby!_

And without a second thought, I sign off with “Sincerely, Me,” before shoving the envelope and the note into the locker and sprinting to my next class. Now, I just have to wait until he gets it.

/\/\/\

By the time 3 o’clock rolls by, I find myself standing by Connor’s locker, with absolutely no chill. I should be catching the bus, going home, waiting for him to text me when he finds it, but I can’t. I don’t do surprises well. I’ve always ruined them.

Zoe stops by first, eyeing me quietly. Her hair is still sun-kissed from the summer with golden strings of honey mixed in with her natural reddish-brown, the red coming from her mother. She opens her locker and gracelessly throws her books in. She’s a normal, even-tempered girl, yet there are some gestures she and Connor share. They’re both tall and slim with the ability to walk elegantly, silently, yet almost any movement with their arms is clunky and abrupt. I think I’ve only ever seen Zoe relax her shoulders when she’s playing her guitar.

“Are you waiting for Connor?” she finally asks, marking off the day on her locker calendar. Of course, she has an MTV Cribs locker. She makes it look effortless.

“Um, y-yeah,” I say, my voice coming out in a croak.

“He has P.E. last period, so he’s probably still changing,” she says. “How was your summer?”

I can’t tell if the question is threatening or not. She knows about me and Connor. Is she being genuine, or have I walked into a trap? She’s Connor’s sister after all. You never know what’s actually going on inside her head.

_Jesus, relax. It’s Zoe Murphy. She’s just normal._

“It was alright,” I find myself saying with a steady voice. I could add more, be charming and kind. Show her I’m not a threat, but I leave it at that.

_It was alright._

“What happened to your arm?”

“I was working at Ellison Park, and I, uh, fell out of a tree…”

“Oh, geez.”

_She uses the word “geez,” why am I afraid of her?_

_Because I’m carrying her brother’s baby._

“Listen,” she says, more seriously now. “I know about you and my brother… He’s not… worth it.”

“What do you mean?” I feel blood running to my cheeks.

“He’s a psychopath? I mean, you’ve seen how he can be… I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

I just nod, press my lips together. There’s nothing I can say. Both siblings have their reasons and their point of views. Both siblings are valid to a certain point, but there’s so much misunderstanding. I can’t be the one to walk the tightrope between them. We both stand awkwardly, silently. I don’t understand why she’s still here.

Finally, Connor comes up the stairs at the end of the hall, hair disheveled, face red, sweaty. He hesitates at the top of the stairs upon seeing both me and Zoe. A crowd of girls comes up the stairs behind him, plowing into him. He’s forced to move forward. The girls make faces and laugh mockingly.

“Hey,” he says slowly, approaching us as if he were approaching a pride of lions. “Zoe, do you have jazz band today?”

“No, we don’t start until next week,” she answers, scrolling through Instagram and not paying us any mind.

“Cool, leave.”

“I’m your ride?”

She does that a lot, inflects her statements like they’re questions.

“I’ll walk today.”

“Okay, weirdo.”

She says it as a sibling would, not like a cruel teenager preying on the outsider. She waves a quick “Bye!” and leaves. Zoe Murphy is totally, completely normal and I have no reason to be afraid of her.

“Uh, hi,” Connor says quietly, hands gripping the strap of his messenger bag.

“Hey,” I reply, just as awkward.

A few beats pass. Neither of us say anything. It’s been like this since Monday. No text messages yet. No talking in first period. Just awkward waves and gestures with several instances of stolen stares.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asks.

“Th-that’s actually a funny… funny story,” I stammer, pulling at my earlobe. “I left something in your locker, earlier… but then I remembered you only, um, check it at the end of the day. So, I thought it would be, um, best if I were here when you go the little… I don’t know, present?”

“Present?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t like, shit in a bag and set in on fire or anything, right?”

My heart drops to my knees.

“No! Of course, I wouldn’t! I mean, why would I? Who would do that?”

“Relax, Evan,” Connor smirks. “I’m just busting your balls.”

He opens his locker and I can’t help but peek inside. It’s the fourth day of school and he’s practically robbed the library. Haphazardly thrown on top of some of the books is the envelope with the pictures and the folded “letter.” Well, I don’t think three words qualifies as a letter.

He squints his eyes, furrows his brow. He grabs the letter, opens it, scanning those three words. I watch as his lips mouth the words, several times.

_Here’s our baby! Here’s our baby! Here’s our baby!_

“On second thought,” I exclaim, “this was silly, and creepy! I’m just going to—”

“No.”

He grabs my cast as I reach for the envelope and returns it to my side. He retrieves the envelope. He glances around. Most of the hallway has cleared out by now, but a few students still remain. He hunches over as if to hide the envelope, then opens it, pulling out three pictures. He flips through them slowly, examining each one as he would a master painting. His eyes are faraway. He’s deep in thought.

Without a word, he grabs a roll of scotch tape from his locker’s upper shelf, tearing off two small pieces. Leaning into the locker, at the very back, he tapes the picture up before shutting his locker and turning to face me.

“I think you should come over,” he says, closing the envelope delicately and slipping it into his jacket’s breast pocket.

“Now?’

“Yes, but I don’t know if the walk is too far for you, we could wait for the 3:45 bus.”

“I can still walk, Connor.”

He just shrugs and starts walking down the hall. I stay standing like a statue by his locker until he stops and turns back to me.

“Well? Come on.”

I trail after him, practically speed walking to keep up with his long-legged strides. He puts a headphone in one ear and takes a hold of my hand. It isn’t like when he grabs someone to pull them along. No, he weaves his fingers in mine and we are publicly holding hands while walking to his house.

_Dear God, what if someone sees us?_

“I’m sorry if that’s weird,” he says almost immediately. “I’m still… working on things. I’m not ready for a relationship yet… I just needed to, uh, well… I just wanted to hold your hand.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, exaggerating how relieved I am. I’m not. “It’s totally cool.”

It’s totally not.

Neither of us say anything the rest of the way home.


	6. chapter five

Connor Murphy’s family is loaded. Well, not like rich, but definitely upper-middle class. Upper-middle class enough to be a four car household, even if Connor’s and Zoe’s cars are secondhand. I’ve been to the Murphy’s quite a bit, despite never having met Connor’s parents. Their house is in one of the posh suburbs, one where the houses and trees were old, but everything still looked as if it popped up from the ground yesterday. People here had gardeners, landscapers, carpenters, artists—you name it—working on projects. Or, the housewives would get bored and take up a new homemaking hobby every week. From what Connor told me, his mom, Cynthia, had a new homemaking hobby every week.

Their house is two stories, not including basement ( _finished_ basement). This includes five bedrooms: the master, Connor’s, Zoe’s, a guest, and one converted into a home office. Every room is furnished and decorated. Every room is full of pictures and knick-knacks that tell the Murphy story. My favorite photo is a full family portrait that hangs over the fireplace in their living room.

All of them are wearing head-to-toe white and standing barefoot on the beach by Lake Ontario. They’re all laughing, but it’s obviously posed and edited by the photographer they hired, as the biggest smile in the world couldn’t hide the awkward poses each family member holds. In fact, the whole image is edited to the point where it seems surreal—I mean, Lake Ontario is never _that_ blue. If the Murphys were a weird, homeschooled family with a band, that picture would be the cover of their first CD.

This is how Cynthia wants the world to see her family.

Neither of the Murphy siblings uphold that image, but Zoe is much more easily forgivable.

Connor and I finally arrive home, and in his Connor way of doing things, he avoids the front door, rather taking me around the house and through the back door into the kitchen. The basement stairs go right up to the kitchen door, so per our old routine, we would sneak in through the back and down the stairs, undetectable. We make it inside and he nudges me forward down the stairs first. Neither of us make it two steps before Cynthia appears.

“Connor!” Cynthia calls with too much excitement. “How was school?”

He slinks around to face his mom but doesn’t say anything.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks.

“Evan,” he says with a bite of annoyance.

“Well, let me meet her!”

I slink forward from the stairs, head slightly bowed. I’m not ready to look Cynthia Murphy in the eye, not with what I’m hiding. Without giving her even a glance, I hold out my hand. She takes it, shaking it a little too excitedly.

“I’m Evan,” I mumble. “Evan Hansen.”

“Nice to meet you!” she says in a sing-song voice. But she’s not finished speaking. She’s far from finished. “I’m so glad Connor is finally bringing people home! Zoe’s friends are over all the time, but Connor just hides in his room or the basement… If I remember correctly, you two were in several grades in elementary school!”

She stops to take a breath, but Connor steps in before she can speak again.

“We have some homework to do,” he says assertively.

“Oh, of course! Sorry for talking your ear off… You’re free to stay for dinner!”

Connor rushes me downstairs and slams the basement door behind us. He throws his backpack next to an old coffee table and plops down next to it, pulling out a sketchbook. I sit down next to him, grabbing out my laptop. I try to start writing. The tree assignment has come and gone, yet I linger over the document, wondering what more I could do. Mrs. Edison mentioned when we turned it in that we would revisit the assignment at the end of the year. It isn’t even the end of the first week.

I shut my laptop and decide to watch Connor draw.

“So…” I start, not knowing how I’m going to finish.

“So…?” Connor repeats back in a question.

“Um… so why is Zoe driving you?”

“I wrapped my car around a tree in July,” he’s says with such nonchalance. I nearly choke on the breath I take in.

“Oh my God, are you—”

“I’m fine… there was a… deer. I swerved away from it. It was late at night. Car was totaled.”

“Oh, okay…”

“It was a shitty car anyway. Zoe doesn’t need to drive me either—I have my bike—but Mom insists we go to school and come home together. I’m surprised she didn’t chew me out in the kitchen earlier.”

“Well, you had a girl with you and that piqued her interest,” I giggle, nudging him in the arm. He smiles softly and glances over at me. His eyes are naturally hooded and puffy, making him look constantly tired and dazed. But today, they’re clear, focused, even a tad bit worried.

“I haven’t told them yet,” he blurts out, tugging at a lock of hair. It takes me a second to figure out what he means, but it finally clicks.

“I mean, I didn’t expect you to,” I respond, pulling my knees to my chest.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” he sighs. “I don’t know, I just feel like I should get it over with and tell them, but I don’t want to do it without you…”

Everything clicks into place.

“No,” I say, starting to feel panicky. “I can’t do that. You have to tell them alone.”

“Evan, we did this together! I can’t just tell them I got a girl pregnant without them even knowing you.”

“So, you only invited me over to break the news to your parents?”

"No, I’m trying to reconnect with you, for fuck’s sake! But I don’t want to dance around the truth.”

“Connor, I can’t do it!”

“Why not? You told your mom!”

“But that’s my own mother—it’s different! Your family doesn’t know me! What are they going to say about me? What if they think I’m some, I don’t know, some…”

“Slut?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, tears already running down my cheeks.

“Well, you aren’t,” he says, gathering me into his arms. “And I’d be the one getting shit from them. It’s just… it’s better if they know. We can’t do this alone, Ev… I can’t do this alone.”

“We have each other,” I offer meekly, knowing the moment it leaves my mouth that it’s a recipe for disaster.

“I don’t think two teenagers with crippling mental illnesses should handle this only between themselves,” he says. It’s a sharp slap in the face, but he’s right.

_He’s so right._

“I’m already thinking I’m gonna fuck all of this up,” he continues, still wrapped around me. “I can’t even take care of myself! But… I don’t know, I’m just trying to give myself a chance… none of this is going to fix anything with me, but maybe it will kickstart something.”

He chokes a little, but there are no tears.

“I want to get better, Evan,” he says in a strained voice.

He takes a deep breath, unravels himself from me, and returns to his drawing. It’s a bunch of heads, all disembodied and smashed into each other on the page. A closer look shows that every face is his, each one making a different expression. They each take on their own personality and emotion; just a bunch of little Connors shoved into a box.

“So, do you want to tell them at dinner?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

I just watch him draw.

/\/\/\

Dinner is meatloaf, and my stomach is not happy about it. We haven’t even eaten yet, but the moment the smell wafted down into the basement, I felt myself turn green. Now it’s in front of me on a plate and I’m trying not to puke on Cynthia’s yellow tablecloth with flowers embroidered around the hem. Connor sits next to me, his hand on my knee under the table. He has advised me many times against his mother’s cooking. Guess I’ll just have to find out.

Meeting the Murphys formally is surreal. Of course, I’ve seen them all together at school functions and sports games since elementary school, but in their home, the façade drops. These aren’t the Murphys the public sees. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just odd.

Zoe is a lot quieter and more closed off at home. Most of her interactions with her family are punctuated with an exasperated sigh and an eye roll. She doesn’t lock herself in her room or the basement as Connor does, but she keeps her headphones in, focusing on her own tasks and activities while blocking everyone else out. I wonder what it’s really like in Zoe Murphy’s world.

Larry Murphy always had a smile on his face in public and on the hundreds of Facebook photos Cynthia posts. At home, there isn’t even an accidental smile. The man is a broad and stoic figure. Connor had mentioned before that he always had something he was working on, whether it be some household chore, a yard improvement, a garage project. His hands were always full, and he was always working. In the rare moment his isn’t, he’s locked away in the study with a book in hand.

Finally, there’s Cynthia. She tries very hard at everything. The way she presents herself publicly is the way she lives privately. She wants people to like her. More than anything, she wants her family to like her, but she goes about it in all the wrong ways. Her kids are both smothered by her constant attention and yet invisible to her as she doesn’t take the time to get to know them. There are moments, tough, when she has a breakthrough and bonds with Zoe over music or understands Connor’s offbeat world views. But those moments are rare.

And Connor stopped playing into his family’s façade long ago. He is at home as he is at school. He has his own walls he lives behind.

“How was everybody’s day?” Cynthia asks as soon as the last person is seat. Forks scrape against plate and no one answers. She repeats herself. “How was everybody’s day?”

“Fine,” Larry says bluntly between bites. Cynthia nods then singles in her stare on Zoe.

“It was alright,” Zoe says, picking mushrooms out of her meatloaf. “I think everyone is ready for the end of the first week already.”

Cynthia smiles. Larry nods. Connor picks at a pile of green beans.

“How about you, Connor?” Cynthia asks, leaning forward and placing her hand on his arm. Her eyes flick between him and me.

A few beats. Everyone is watching Connor.

“It was okay,” he says quietly, pulling his arm away from Cynthia. He squeezes me knee under the table. Everyone seems taken aback that he actually answered. By the look in her eyes, Cynthia wants to press further, but she backs off, returns to her food.

A few minutes pass of just silent eating, then Connor speaks up again.

“I actually have something to share,” he says nervously. His hand now has a death grip on my knee. This is it.

_Holy fucking shit._

“What is it?” Cynthia asks, putting her elbows on the table and crowing her fingers. She looks like she’s about to pray. She just might after the bomb that’s about to drop.

“So, uh, yeah,” Connor starts, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I don’t know how to, um, go about this, but… So, Evan and I have actually been friends since last year. We had British literature together… We hung out a lot this summer and well…”

Connor pulls out the envelope with the two ultrasound pictures. Cynthia’s eyebrows knit together. I wonder if she already knows where this is going.

“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” he says quietly, handing his mother the envelope. He hangs his head down low, hair covering his face.

Cynthia takes the envelope delicately, glances at Connor, then over at me. Worry fills her eyes.

_Why is she taking so long to open the envelope!?_

Finally, she folds open the envelope, looks inside, then, slowly, hands shaking, pulls out the first image. I watch as her already fair complexion pales even further. She places a hand over her mouth, muffling a choked sob.

“Oh my God,” she whispers in disbelief. “Connor is this…? Evan, are you…?”

“What is it, Cynthia?” Larry asks from the other head of the table. In a moment, he’s right by Cynthia’s side, taking the second photo from her. His concern over his wife’s reaction very quickly turns in anger at Connor. “What the hell is this?”

Connor raises his head, pushes his hair behind his ears, but avoids all eye contact. Cynthia is in full tears, her mascara running down her cheeks. She drops the picture in her hand and Zoe snatches it instantly. Her eyes go wide. Her mouth drops open.

“I can’t fucking believe it!” Zoe practically screams, crumpling up the picture and throwing it at Connor. “You really have to fucking ruin everything!”

She slams her chair against the table and runs off. Her feet pound up the stairs and we can hear her door slam from the dining room. Connor picks up the crumpled ball and tries to flatten it back out.

“How far along is she?” Larry asks as if I’m not there. Connor opens his mouth, but I take the reins.

“Ten weeks,” I blurt. “I’ll be around eleven weeks on Tuesday.”

“Oh my God,” Cynthia sobs again, clutching a napkin so hard her knuckles go white.

“Evan told me on Monday,” Connor adds. I don’t think that makes the situation better.

“How the hell are you going to afford a kid?” Larry’s voice rises. “How are you even going to care for a kid? You don’t even take care of yourself!”

_Exactly what Connor said earlier._

“Larry…” Cynthia mumbles, trying to console her husband, but to no avail.

“Did you even use protection? Or, let me guess, you were high!”

“We did use protection,” I stammer, but Connor yells over me.

“I wasn’t fucking high!” he yells, standing up and slamming his hands against the table. “And it’s none of your fucking business how it happened!”

“It’s all gone,” Cynthia sniffles. “My baby’s future is gone…”

“I’m so mad, I can’t even look at you,” Larry growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“It wasn’t some planned act of spite against you,” Connor shouts, his voice tired and exasperated. “It just happened and… and I’m scared, and I need my parents.”

“I don’t want you asking that right now. I… I’m going to the study.”

Larry leaves the room, footsteps heavy, angry.

Cynthia is still crying.

“Oh, Connor,” she says, wiping her eyes. Connor kneels next to her, taking her hand. “What are people going to say? What about your future? What if you don’t graduate?”

She poses a million more questions through tears and snot, all the while Connor holds her in a loose hug. She finally composes herself enough to peel away from her son, busying herself by cleaning up everyone’s half-eaten meals.

“Evan, I think it’s best you leave,” she advises, refusing to look at me.

She’s right. I think I’ve seen more than I was meant to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a strange fic and a wild topic, but I appreciate all of the comments and kudos! Thank you all so much for reading. I hope I keep y'all interested and wanting more!


	7. chapter six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter as I work through online school and quarantine life...

The sun is already setting by the time Connor starts walking me home. Cynthia didn’t want him being alone with me, or rather me being alone with him, and offered to drive me, but Connor yanked me out the door before all the words left her mouth. The weather has taken a turn, and though it isn’t bad, it’s muggy. The air sticks heavily to my skin. Connor isn’t holding my hand.

“I’m sorry about all of that,” I murmur, wiping the clammy palm of my right hand repeatedly against my pants.

“What the fuck are you apologizing for?” Connor asks, tired and defeated. “It’s my family. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I kind of ruined your life, by getting pregnant and all…”

My palm refuses to dry.

“I used a condom that had been sitting in my glove compartment since freshman year,” Connor laughs. It’s cynical, harsh. “It isn’t your fault you got pregnant.”

“It isn’t anybody’s fault.”

That word has been thrown around a lot lately, mostly in my head though. It’s everywhere.

_Fault. Fault. Fault._

_It’s all my fault that I’ve ruined his family._

We walk in silence for a while. No holding hands. No sudden stops. No talk of us or the baby or anything. Every time our elbows brush, we act like shamed nuns breaking our vow of celibacy. Yellow and orange wash over us in a steady rhythm as light feet tap across concrete. The lights cast long shadows on Connor’s face. He looks like a ghost.

“You didn’t ruin my life,” he says quietly, his voice barely penetrating the outdoor noise of late summer. I don’t know what to say. My voice gets caught in my throat, but there were no words to begin with.

“We probably should’ve driven,” I mumble, changing the subject. “I don’t really live near and you probably shouldn’t be walking so far so late.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he grumbles. He kicks at a few branches on the sidewalk, leftovers from someone probably doing yardwork. Everyone has immaculate yards in this neighborhood. Yards in my neighborhood get mowed once a year, if we’re lucky. “I’ve gone much further much later.”

His hands are shoved in his sweatshirt pockets, but his arms are straight, tense, shoulders raised. Through the fabric, I can see his hands moving, fidgeting.

“Are you alright?” I ask. I regret the words immediately.

“No, Evan!” he snaps, stopping abruptly. “I’m not fucking alright!”

“Why?”

_Stop talking. Stop asking stupid questions. Stop provoking him._

“Are you serious? Are you fucking serious? What if my parents kick me out because of this? What if they send me away to another boarding school? Like… Fuck, it was the right thing to tell them, but I have no idea what’s going to happen now! They could cut me off, and then I have to find a way to support myself, and you and the baby, and I have to try to get healthy on top of that… I… Evan, I don’t know what to do…”

Connor Murphy is a man of many emotions, and he has never been good at hiding them. Well, I haven’t been good at hiding my own emotions, either.

“You think I know what to do?” I ask, blinking back tears. “Connor, I have no clue what I’m doing either.”

“I know, I know,” he says, now worried, remorseful. He continues to speak, but I cut him off, unable to catch my tongue.

“I’m going to get huge,” I sob, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I’m going to get huge and people are going to know. They’re going to ask questions and spread rumors. They’re going to stare at me every day in the hallway at school. They’re going to judge every action I take. It won’t just be students, but teachers will do it, too. I’ll have to drop and adjust classes. Everyone will say shit like, ‘look at how she threw her life away.’ Connor, I don’t know what to do either!”

His hands are on my face. I don’t know when grabbed me, but he holds me steady, thumbs wiping away my tears. He has the kind of eyes that stare into you. They’re a pretty light blue, his right eye with a slight patch of brown. They’re dry and clear, unlike my own. He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just stares. Somehow, it’s enough for me to catch my breath, let my thoughts slow down.

“I think it’s best,” he says after my breathing steadies, “that we just take this one day at a time. Is that cool? We take it one day at a time, try not to overthink whatever our future ends up being, and just… still be teenagers while we can?”

“I think I’d like that,” I hiccup, which causes him to smile a bit.

“So, now we have to do normal teenager shit, like go to football games and school dances.”

“Like I’d even fit into a dress by the time prom comes around.”

“We’ll just find sweatpants that match my tie.”

Now we’re both laughing as if nothing happened, as if we weren’t two scared teenagers with no idea what to do. Just take it one day at a time. Take that day hour by hour, minute by minute.

/\/\/\

We end up arriving at my house long after dark. Mom isn’t home, as usual. Her work hours are never consistent. Sometimes, she works a normal day shift, with class afterwards to work toward her masters. Other times, she’ll take on night shifts or respond to every single call she gets, often returning to the hospital even after she’s gotten home and changed and settled. But, to be fair to her, I don’t try to memorize her schedule, and she doesn’t try to memorize mine.

Connor hasn’t been to my house. Not inside, at least. He’s driven by and picked me up, even coming to my bedroom window a few times, scaring the shit out of me before whisking me away for a long midnight drive. But that was it. I didn’t want him to see the inside. I didn’t want him to think less of me because of how I lived.

Realistically speaking, he wouldn’t care at all, but after spending so much time in his family’s posh and lavish home, I felt like I might as well have been raised in rundown trailer park.

“I like your mom’s decorating,” is the first thing he says. “It’s very boho chic.”

Yes, it is. Mom who dresses younger than me and follows astrology has filled her house with plants, foreign trinkets, and even a tapestry or two. It’s almost ironic that she’s in the medical field. You’d think she would try to cure my anxiety with sage and crystals.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “I guess it is.”

“My mom just makes our house a Hobby Lobby display,” he laughs. It’s genuine, no cynicism in his voice for once.

“It sure smells like one. All clove and candles.”

He smiles and shrugs, his movements clunky.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask awkwardly. He takes a seat on the couch, crossing his legs and settling in. It doesn’t seem like he’s ready to leave any time soon.

“Booze?” he suggests. I shoot him a look. He rolls his eyes. “You know I hate alcohol, Evan. Water is fine.”

I grab us each a glass water settling on the couch next to him. Not too close. Not too far. He takes a sip, glancing around the room.

“Are the plants yours?”

“No, they’re my mom’s.”

“What about the flowers in the back? Are they still there? You didn’t shut up for a week after planting them.”

“Oh, they’re… dead,” I laugh. “I guess I did talk your ear off about those.”

“Yeah, you did. It was nice… I liked when you talked about flowers and plants. And soil! You had such a strong opinion on soil.”

“And you had such a strong opinion on Yoko Ono and her art.”

He smirks but doesn’t say anything. He downs the glass of water. Several seconds go by. No one speaks. Did I say something wrong?

“Why are we talking like this?” he finally asks. “Like we’re remembering an ancient past?”

I’m caught off guard. Why are we talking like this? Why can’t we just pick-up where we left off? Have normal conversations that aren’t full of panic and worry, or remembering when things were fine? Why can’t we just be normal?

_Because we aren’t normal, and this isn’t a normal situation._

I don’t respond.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Can I stay the night?” he asks, finally looking over at me. “Sorry, I know that’s weird, but—”

“Yes,” I blurt. “Yes, you can stay the night.”

No discussion. No second thoughts. All he needs is a quick yes and suddenly we’re in my room and he’s wearing a pair of my pajama pants. They’re too short on him and baggy around the hips. He cuffs the pants and adjusts the draw strings. I can’t help but stare. He’s skinny, scrawny, and lanky, but absolutely perfect.

He notices me staring at him and dances around a bit.

“Do I look good?” he asks. “Maybe I should’ve worn the Juicy Couture sweatpants?”

And he ruins the moment nearly giving me a heart attack.

“What?” I exclaim, the words catching and stumbling. “Those aren’t—I mean—I’m not—I don’t wear those—they’re my mom’s!”

“I can’t wait to tell all three of the people I know that Evan Hansen wears Juicy Couture sweatpants,” he teases, nearly bent over laughing. I flop down backwards onto the bed, pressing my palms into my eyes, not sure whether to die from embarrassment or laugh along with him. The bed shifts. Connor joins me. “I bet they’d look great on me.”

“I’m sure they would,” I mumble, removing my hands. He’s laying right next to me, so close. His face relaxes into something thoughtful as he leans in. I lay there frozen, unsure what to do. I prepare myself for a kiss, but instead, he rests his head on my chest, pulls me in close. His hand slips up my shirt, resting flat on my belly, slowly moving in circles. I find myself resting a hand on his head, slowly playing with his hair.

I don’t remember when we fall asleep.


	8. chapter seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everybody for all the support! Getting your comments just makes my day and I appreciate every single one. Love you all!

But I do remember waking up to my mom standing over us, her lips pursed and her hands on her hips. I’m up before Connor. Panic sets in almost immediately and I’m nudging him awake, my eyes still locked with Mom’s. She doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

Connor groggily comes to consciousness, but his few seconds feel like years.

“Connor,” I murmur, shaking him a little harder. “You have to go.”

“What?” he asks, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The other hand is still up my shirt, resting warm on my stomach.

“Actually,” Mom says, crossing her arms, “I think it would be nice of Connor to join us for breakfast.”

Connor is aware of what’s happening now. His eyes go wide. His mouth drops open as he looks at me. Neither of us say anything. We just lay there, silent, staring at each other as Mom stares at us. Finally, I snap out of, pushing Connor of the bed and bolting upward myself. I move too fast. My stomach flips. With a hand over my mouth, I barely make it to the bathroom.

Both Mom and Connor follow me into the bathroom. There are hands on my hips, gently squeezing. They’re Mom’s hands. Connor stands in my peripheral vision, wringing his hands and staring at the floor. He doesn’t intervene.

“Connor, could you give us a moment alone, please?” Mom asks through tight lips. I see Connor nod and slink through the door, shutting it behind him. Now it’s just me and Mom. A few seconds of tense silence pass before she speaks again. “How was your sleepover?”

I wipe my mouth, flush the toilet, anything to avoid speaking. Nothing happened. I have nothing to be scared of. Why can’t I speak?

“On a school night?” she continues. “With a boy?”

“Nothing happened!” I snap, pushing myself away from her arms. “He just… didn’t want to go home.”

“Well, I mean I don’t even know what I’m mad about,” Mom sighs. “It’s just a shock that the one morning I’m here to wake you up and make breakfast, there’s a boy in bed with you.”

“You made breakfast?”

“Whole wheat pancakes, with raspberries on top…”

“And?”

“And I used the pine tree mold because—”

“Round pancakes are boring,” we finish in unison, breaking into soft giggles.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to freak you out,” she says, rubbing my knee. “I was just shocked and confused… And I am your mother and I have to at least try to be big and scary sometimes.”

Another small, comfortable laugh and she stares off into the distance.

“I’ll go make a plate for Connor,” she says, standing up. “I’m not sure if I can fully look at him yet, but what’s done is done. I do want to get to know him…”

She leaves the room and I’m still left sitting on the bathroom floor. Connor and I make eye contact through the door. He sits on my bed, hands in his lap, twitching and shaking. He’s still wearing my pajama pants. His hair is tangled and unbrushed, even more so than usual.

“Do you like pancakes?” I ask.

/\/\/\

Connor isn’t really a big eater. Of all the times we had been together, he has eaten only twice in front of me, not even finishing what he had at the time: a small bag of popcorn on one occasion and an ice cream cone on another. And we went out for ice cream a lot over the summer. He just didn’t like eating in front of people. But he actually eats Mom’s pancakes, taking time to taste them and savor them, eventually asking for another stack after the first.

I think he may just be acting polite, but Connor has never pulled off polite so well.

_Maybe he’s actually comfortable here._

He doesn’t talk at all through breakfast, just eats. Mom reminds me of my appointment with Dr. Sherman, promising that she’ll be able to drive me today. I don’t plan on holding my breath for that to happen, though. We finish eating. Mom heads to work. Connor and I head off to school.

Connor wears the same clothes as yesterday. As if he was prepared to stay the night, he still has his messenger bag, ready for school, but it’s mostly full of art supplies. All of his school assignments sink to the bottom to be crumpled and beat up, but still done and turned in on time with surprising effort behind it. The only projects Connor despised and didn’t do were group projects. He had always been the one in middle school to lead the projects and pick up the slack, then high school happened, and he gave up, even purposefully sabotaging projects.

Everyone knew about his infamous stunt with Alana Beck in Freshman English. Constant retellings of the story through the underclassmen skewed the story a bit. No one ever approached Connor about it, but the question arose: did he say Fuck Finn or Cuck Finn?

I wasn’t in the class.

I didn’t even pay attention to Connor Murphy back then.

He was just another one of the loner kids that drifted through the school like shadows.

And then April of Junior year after a few conversations in British Literature, he asked me to prom with a note written on the back of an illustration he did for a Beowulf assignment. Only, we didn’t go to prom. Instead, on the night of prom, I sat awkwardly in the passenger seat of his car as he drove us to the lake. We sat in the sand, the waves lapping gently against our feet. We talked about everything and anything. He didn’t open up right away. He didn’t open up until late in the night after drowsiness had set in for both of us.

The stars were so bright that night. It was as if the whole world had gone dark, all human self-importance was lost as the universe took over for just one night.

Suddenly, we had inside jokes. Suddenly, he waved at me in the halls. Suddenly, we were hanging out after school in the library.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel invisible anymore.

It sucks how short-lived that feeling was.

_After I ruined everything._

The walk to school is quiet. There’s small talk and murmuring. He holds my hand up until the last two blocks. It isn’t awkward or unnatural. It’s like we’ve done this a million times. Even with a homemade breakfast and a walk, we arrive at school a half an hour before classes start. So, we sit on the steps that lead up to the football field, watching the kids with cars pool into the parking lots.

Connor pulls out a pack of cigarettes, Marlboros, popping the lid and pulling a cigarette out. Without a glance, without a thought, he takes it between his lips and lights it. I’m not confrontational. I cover my nose and mouth and look away.

“Oh, fuck,” he curses, finally looking at me after several drags. He drops the cigarette and puts it out with his boot, fighting a small coughing fit. “I guess I should stop that.”

“Yeah, probably,” I mumble. “But it’s not a big deal.”

“It can be.”

“I saw you smoking, asshole,” Zoe interrupts us, standing several steps down. She’s staring Connor down with a death glare so intense if almost matches his own. Her arms are crossed over her chest, obscuring the words to a faux vintage tee. She’s dressed like sunshine on an overcast day, but her attitude is a solar flare.

“I fucking stopped, didn’t I?” Connor protests.

“Whatever, they probably have security cameras anyway… Mom and Dad were pissed when you didn’t come home.”

“It’s not exactly a good place for me to be right now, Zoe.”

“Well Dad told me to tell you that ‘Connor Bailey Murphy should get his ass home tonight or there will be consequences,’” Zoe taunts. The two of them are like five year-olds that found a book of dirty words.

“Extree! Extree! Read all about it!” Connor shouts. “Nothing has changed in the Murphy Household!”

“Whatever, it’s not like you can get her pregnant twice,” Zoe sighs with an eye roll to rearrange the solar system. “Just come home tonight. They yell at me too when you fuck up.”

She stomps away and into the school, friends meeting up with her halfway there. Her body language immediately changes the moment she is in contact with them. It’s like nothing ever happened and Connor didn’t exist.

_Are they going to be like this forever?_

The warning bell rings, and we head to class. Another day goes by in a whirlwind, Connor in and out of snippets of it, dancing a weird line of being the only thing in my life and being completely indifferent and unaware. With any effort, Connor could probably make someone believe he was multiple people at once, dancing around situations and people, blending in just enough to be forgotten, yet standing out just enough to be labeled in many different fashions.

The end of the day comes crashing by and I get a text from Mom.

“On my way to pick you up!” it reads. “Don’t forget your letter!”

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

I haven’t done a letter in weeks. I bullshit my last three appointments, revamping old letters I had never shown Dr. Sherman, making stuff up. I hid Connor from him. I hid the pregnancy from him. I just plastered on a smile, saying, “yeah, it just feels like I get so overwhelmed by the world, but who doesn’t?”

I spent three weeks convincing him I’m fine and now I have to go in and unload everything I’ve kept from him. Hell, I even lied to the nurses doing vitals before every appointment.

_Any possibility that you could be pregnant?_

Can’t hide it now that it’s in the hospital’s records.

He probably already knows.

I stare down at the blank word document on my laptop.

_Do I even have to write a stupid letter?_

_How would it even go?_

_Dear Evan Hansen,_

_Today has been an okay day, but that’s small and irrelevant because I’m pregnant and that’s just put a whole damper on this whole life experience. I’m going to get fat, tired, and even more depressed than I already am. My responsibilities are going to skyrocket because SURPRISE! I’ll be a MOM soon and I have TO RAISE OFFSPRING. And who’s going to help me? None other than resident freak, loner, stoner: Connor Murphy! We’ll be stellar parents, top tier PTA contenders!_

_I’d rather have a baby come out with three eyes that all the mental shit I have._

_But at least you’re YOU, Evan Hansen! And that fixes everything._

_Right?_

_Sincerely,_

_Me_

I hope Dr. Sherman likes it.

/\/\/\

“Evan! It’s nice to see you,” Dr. Sherman greets me in the waiting room. “How’s your week been?”

“It was fine,” I mumble, slinking behind him through the clinic. “A lot has happened…”

“So, I’ve heard, but we’ll get that in a bit.”

He opens the door to his office, letting me enter first. I take a seat in the chair next to him. Dr. Sherman is a therapist but focuses more on psychiatry. Therapists, psychologist specifically, always have big comfortable couches that you sink into and a coffee table full of toys and fidget items. Before Dr. Sherman, before medication, I went to just a regular psychologist. I would sit on the couch every Tuesday afternoon after school and play with the magnetic building pieces while trying to talk through my problems. Talking alone didn’t really change anything.

Sometimes I wonder if medication changed anything either.

I can still barely talk on the phone to order a damn pizza. Is there a pill for that?

“Alright,” he settles behind his desk, logging into his computer, “so the OBGYN unit sent me a report at the request of your mother and your vitals came back today confirming that. You’re pregnant.”

I nod, lips pressed tightly together.

“How are you feeling about all of this?”

The flood dams in the back of my eyes break and his office is suddenly Niagara Falls. I open up about Connor, about the day I took the test, about starting school. I tell him every fear I have in the moment, knowing that I’ll just develop more as the weeks go by. I pound him with “What If?” questions as if there is no tomorrow.

_What if I mess up my child?_

_What if I can’t be a mom and have to give it up for adoption?_

_What if Connor gets cold feet and bails?_

_What if I don’t graduate?_

_What if falling had worked?_

_What if my plan had been successful?_

The last two questions don’t get asked. They sit heavy in the back of my throat, suffocating me. Maybe I could breathe easier if I got them out but choking for air has become normal for me.

Everyone knows the fall was an accident. It’s going to stay that way.

When I finally calm down and come to, Dr. Sherman gives a big lecture on how this isn’t his expertise, but he’s still willing to work with me. He writes down names of several prenatal psychologists that I can reach out to if I need any specific treatment. He instructs me to stop taking Xanax, but Lexipro is fine and shouldn’t have any adverse effects on the baby. Just the possibility of something going wrong is enough to scare me off of meds altogether.

The appointment ends and I lock myself in the bathroom before meeting Mom outside. My face has always been soft and round, forever holding onto baby fat. Mom always joked that she knew when a coworker was pregnant because their face was the first thing to get fat. A baby face paired with hormonal weight gain and an endless stream of tears makes me feel like a ripe tomato: red, puffy, and will probably explode with even just a pinprick.

I wash the face the best that I can and put on a casual smile. It’s not convincing, but now I just look like I have seasonal allergies rather than I cried off the first layer of skin under my eyes. I can’t help but breathe just a little easier. The three most important and prominent people in my life know about the secret I had been holding. It’s not a secret anymore. It feels more real than it ever has before.

But I have a support network, so maybe things will be a little easier.


	9. chapter eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter that could be better, but I felt y'all needed some fluff.

Some things are easier than others.

After the initial shock wears off, Mom and I settle back into our usual routine. The best we can, at least. She still tries to insert herself, pretending we’re closer than we actually are. I never know what to say to her or how to say it, but I need her. I need her more than anything right now. We’ll never have the normal we had before.

It’s harder with Connor than I expected. I feel like we’re healing, building a bond again. But he stays guarded and stoic, keeps his walls up. I respect him and stay inside the boundaries he’s established. We hold hands. Sometimes he stays the night. Nothing goes anywhere beyond that, though.

I just do what Connor said to do: take it all day by day.

So, I do that.

Days start slow, but eventually fly by, and then suddenly a week is gone and then another one. Finally, a month has passed, and it feels unreal that so much time has already passed. But just when life is picking up and kicking into lightning speed, something happens to slow it back down again.

/\/\/\

Connor and I are the youngest people in the waiting room, which isn’t a surprise, but it is intimidating. Happy couples surround us, with giddy grins plastered on their faces. They’re all dressed nicely, suburban but with a high end polish. All the women are much further along than me, looking practically pinned down with comically sized stomachs. They seem unphased and untired, as if Mother Earth granted them with more energy than the sun. I’m only sixteen weeks along and I feel like I could fall asleep standing.

Connor watches all the dads closely and I know he’s comparing himself. All the dad are older with short, above the ear haircuts and ironed clothes. They glance over magazines and scroll through baby websites on their phones, pointing things out to their partners. Connor, on the other hand, sits with his shoulder length hair, frizzy and curly, but at least it’s washed. His grey jeans are old and torn at the knees, complimented by the worn combat boots he wears nearly every day. He has a slight pop of color on, wearing a maroon Henley, but he wears his dark hoodie over it. It’s toned down compared to some of his other outfits, but he is not the person you’d expect here.

Next to all the established, expecting parents, Connor and I sit with wide eyes and nervous posture. We are the American Gothic of teen parents.

He tries to talk to me several times, but neither of us say anything. Waiting rooms are designed to keep people anxious and worrying. Finally, after several awkward breaths and hums, I take his hand in mine, holding it much tighter than I need to. He gives it an affirming squeeze and glances at me with a small smile.

“Are you nervous?” I ask quietly, leaning my head against his shoulder.

“Is it not obvious?” he asks with a quick, quiet chuckle. “What do they do to the dads at these things?”

“Give you a nice pat on the crotch and a ‘Good job, buddy!’” I joke, nudging him in the side. A smile lights up his face and some of the nervousness melts away from both of us. He lets go of my hand, wrapping an arm around me.

I’m called back next. Connor’s grip on my hand gets tighter as we follow the nurse to the ultrasound room. His body is still and calm, but his eyes dart from wall to wall, staring at the posters and diagrams of fetuses and the female reproduction system. He eventually fixates his eyes on the floor, taking a seat next to me. The ultrasound technician is not the same one I had last time.

And she doesn’t seem too friendly.

I lay back on the weird table/seat hybrid and roll my shirt up, revealing the hair tie holding my pants closed in the process. The technician smirks and rolls her eyes, grabbing the bottle of gel and squirting it onto my stomach. Once again, it’s freezing. I can’t help but tense us.

“You okay?” Connor whispers, leaning in close.

“Yeah, it’s just cold,” I mumble.

“Alright, let’s see,” the technician hums out with a bored tone. “Your baby seems to be right on track… Size is normal. You should be gaining a pound or two each week during your second trimester. Most adolescent pregnancies lead to low birth weight… Now let’s hear that heartbeat.”

The heartbeat fills the room and I just feel all the anxiety roll off of me. It’s still so fast and the machine gives it a strange reverb, but that’s my baby’s heartbeat. Connor squeezes my hand gently, pulling it to his lips. They’re pressed in a tight, thin line, but he’s smiling. Tears threaten to spill over his heavy eyelids.

“If there’s a clear shot,” the technician continues, “we could be able to tell the gender today. Would you like to know?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, but Connor says “no” just as fast. The technician doesn’t seem amused.

“So, do you want to know?” she asks.

“I do,” I say, but more to Connor than the technician. “Do you think Zoe would want to know?”

“Zoe doesn’t care,” Connor says. “I don’t know, I just panicked.”

“Typical,” the technician sighs, just barely audible. “Is Zoe a friend?”

“She’s my sister,” Connor says, venom filling his voice. “Why the fuck do you care?”

The technician is caught off guard, but she’s just as stubborn and pushes him further.

“Teen parents come through here all the time,” she explains. “Then several months later, it’s their best friends repeating the same mistake. It’s a rather toxic community.”

“But that’s not your problem,” Connor argues.

“Excuse me?”

“All you have to do is draw blood, take pictures, and look at genitals all day. What makes you think we’re so toxic? You barely fucking know us!”

“Sir—”

“Do you really think you’re that fucking above us?”

He’s not going to stop.

“Connor, please,” I urge, trying to sit up while still covered in goo. “Just—”

“No, Evan, this is bullshit! Whatever, I’ll be in the waiting room.”

He drops my hand and storms out the door, boots squeaking on the hospital linoleum. The technician smirks to herself, shaking her head. Anxiety creeps back into my every fiber.

“I-I still want to know,” I mumble. “Can I have several duplicates of the photos?”

She nods and finishes the examination, half-heartedly revealing the gender of my baby and printing out my photos. I blink back tears as I rush out to the waiting room. Connor leans against the door, cheeks red, brow furrowed.

“Hey,” I whisper as I approach him. I push several loose curls behind his ear before taking his hand. “You alright?”

“I’m sorry,” he grumbles. “I shouldn’t have blown up like that… Do you know what they are?”

“Yes and no,” I tease, taking his hand and leading him out of the clinic. “I have an idea…”

“Oh, that’s dangerous.”

“What if, instead of going back to school, we skip the rest of the day? We could get ice cream…”

“Evan Sadie Hansen, you are fucking perfect.”

/\/\/\

It turns out À La Mode isn’t really busy on a Tuesday right after noon, which is perfect. Connor waits in the car (Zoe’s car. She wasn’t happy with him borrowing it.) while I run in and order, which throws him off guard. Any other time we’ve been here, I’ve made him order, but he just goes along with it. I return with a cup of vanilla for him, pistachio for me.

“I don’t usually get vanilla,” he says when I hand him the cup.

“I know,” I say, trying to hide the glee in my voice. “I thought it’s be fun to try something different.”

“Yeah, because vanilla is so different.”

I just shrug, taking a spoonful of ice cream, keeping my eyes on Connor the whole time. One spoonful of vanilla. Nothing yet. Another spoonful of vanilla. Still nothing. Another spoonful of vanilla and the M&Ms in the middle finally peak out, He stops.

“Pink M&Ms,” he whispers softly, staring down at the ice cream. He turns to me, tears already streaking down his cheeks. “Are we… are we having a girl?”

“Yeah!” I reply, tears in my own eyes. Before I can even process what’s happening, he pulls me into his arms the best he can, crying and wailing.

And then he kisses me for the first time since July.

And I kiss him back.

“Oh my god, we’re having a girl,” he says when he pulls away. “Evan, we’re having a girl!”

“I know! I know!” I cry, holding his face in my hands. “She’s real, Connor! She’s real!”

“Well, of course she is!”

“I know, but it just feels different now.”

“Evan, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he sighs, resting his forehead on mine, placing his hands on my belly. It’s a noticeable little bump now, still somewhat easy to hide, but it’s there. He’s barely touched me in the last few weeks besides awkward hand holding and a slight freak out when he first saw I was showing. He didn’t let me out of his arms the whole night, just holding me, feeling my belly. But this time, it’s different.

This time I feel like I’m his again.

“I love you,” I whisper before I can catch myself.


	10. chapter nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt that the last chapter ended abruptly, so I went back and added an extra sentence for an extra punch. Now, it flows more naturally into this chapter and adds another layer to this seven layer dip of fluff and angst.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments, kudos, and support! I love hearing your feedback and what you all think!

I’ve said a lot of things I couldn’t take back lately. I don’t know if it’s anxiety or hormones or just me finally losing it, but the process of my thoughts becoming words has become so lightning quick that I am unable to think over anything before I speak. I don’t need things to be harder than they already are. I don’t need to ruin things any more than I already have.

The moment those three words slip from my mouth, any ounce of springtime in Connor fades away as his permafrost returns. He slips back into his seat and finishes his ice cream silently.

“I should probably get home,” he mumbles, starting the car.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, reaching over, touching his arm. He swats me away.

“Don’t.”

The ride home is silent and tense. He keeps his eyes on the road, his mouth shut, the radio off. I grasp my cup of pistachio ice cream, watching it melt slowly. A puddle of green mush with little nuts floating lazily. A murky, ugly swamp in my hands. The ride home feels much longer than the ride here.

We eventually pull up to the little house with the blue side paneling. The yard is overgrown and unraked. That’s my chore. Obviously, I’ve neglected it. It’s hard to believe it’s already October. It’s hard to believe I’m already four months pregnant.

Connor pulls into the driveway but keeps the doors lock.

“I’m not ready yet,” he says, still staring straight ahead. “I shouldn’t have kissed you, I was just so… happy. I mean, I’m scared shitless, but today… today I just felt genuinely happy and I-I reacted to quickly… and I got scared. I’m not ready for us yet, but what I said is the truth.”

I could take it any other day, but something about today just didn’t sit right.

I shut down, a static numbness overtaking my body.

“Yeah, okay,” I mumble, unlocking the passenger door. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say anything further, just waits in the driveway as I mope to my front door. I don’t look back, shutting myself off from the outside world. I stand with my back against the door, waiting for his engine to start, waiting for him to drive away. Five minutes pass before his wheels finally crunch against the crumbling concrete.

A full length mirror hangs in the entry way.

I never liked coming home just to be greeted by my own reflection. Being greeted by yourself just makes life all the more lonelier. You expect to be greeted by an excited dog, an aloof cat, a present mother. But instead you open the front door to a reflection of yourself, tired and bloated, defeated and drained, even when the day wasn’t a bad day. Flash floods can happen on the clearest days.

_Today was, overall, a good day._

You can say these things to yourself a million times over and it can still feel so untrue.

I catch sight of the cast still on my arm, yellowed now over the weeks. It comes off next week. I wonder if they’ll slice right through Connor’s name. I pick at the already frayed ends and slump off to my room. My bed welcomes me with a mothering embrace.

The envelope in my pocket crinkles. I pull out my own copies of the ultrasound, holding them above me, studying them. The image is fuzzy and hard to make out, but she actually kind of looks like a baby now. She has a big bobblehead with a nose and mouth and little arms and legs. I don’t know how doctors can tell so much from a grainy, blurry, black and white image. I bring the picture closer, as if I’m searching for something. My eyes trace over the shape of her.

_Her._

_I’m having a little girl._

I don’t know if I want to jump for joy or melt away and cry at the realization. Everything is becoming more and more real with each passing day. I’ve never had things change so fast. Not since Dad left, at least, but that’s ancient history.

_Dad doesn’t know._

_Today was, overall, not a good day._

/\/\/\

“Evan, sweetheart, wake up,” my mother’s voice infiltrates my mind as I groggily come to. “I brought home dinner.”

“What is it?” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I’m curled up on top of my blanket, the ultrasound still clutched in my hand.

“Pizza,” she smiles, playing lightly with my hair.

“What happened to a strict healthy diet?” I joke through a yawn.

“I though you would want a little break…”

We venture to the living room, sitting on the floor as we eat, Hulu on the television. The show, of course, is ER. Mom doesn’t always leave her work at work. If I were interested, I could go into medicine with no issue. She’s bombarded me with enough scenarios and strange facts that I might as well have a doctorate. I honestly don’t watch a lot of show or movies myself, but whenever Mom has them on, I tune in.

“Grey’s Anatomy may boast about McHottie and McBody,” she says before taking a sip of wine.

“McDreamy and McSteamy,” I correct quietly.

“It doesn’t matter—but Dr. Carter and Dr. Ross were the originals!”

She breaks out laughing at her own joke, grabbing another slice of pizza. She’s changed out of her scrubs into some old grey sweatpants and a purple cable knit sweater. I’ve changed into pajamas as well, relieved to have pants that fit me, and nibble at my pizza. The episode ends. There’s a moment to pause before the next one starts.

“I found out what I’m having today,” I say, trying to pep up my voice, trying to fake it just for her sake. Her eyes light up immediately.

“And…? Am I having a granddaughter or a grandson?” she asks eagerly, her hands trembling with excitement.

“Mom, I’m not ready to think of you as a grandma yet,” I chuckle, hoisting myself up to retrieve the ultrasound pictures.

“You should’ve thought about that before you got pregnant!”

“Ha ha, very funny,” I chide, returning with the pictures and handing it to her. “Do you think you can guess?”

“Evan, you know I’m not trained with sonograms,” she says, squinting at the images. She flips through them but shakes her head. “Oh, just tell me already.”

“She’s a girl!”

“What? Are you sure? Because you were supposed to be a boy, and then you were born and the doctor yelled, ‘He’s a she!’”

“Well, who knows with our luck,” I say plainly, scooting in next to her. I take her hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. I should be happy about this. I’m having a baby girl. Why aren’t I happy?

She squeezes my hand just as tight, pulling me closer to her. We both stare at the images in silence. Her eyebrows are furrowed, forehead wrinkled and worried. I wonder if she’s just as scared as I am. She’s probably just disappointed but trying her best to be strong for me. I don’t know if I can ever be as strong as her.

“You alright?” she asks, her eyes digging right through me.

“Connor kissed me today,” I start, talking way too fast. “He got in a fight with the ultrasound technician and didn’t get to see the baby, so I did a little ice cream gender surprise, and he kissed me. He kissed me, and he was crying, and he said I was the best thing to ever happen to him. I don’t know why, but it just slipped out, and I told him I loved him.”

“Okay,” she says. “So, what else happened?”

I stay silent.

“Evan, I know something else happened.”

“He… He got all quiet and weird and drove me home in silence. We got home and he just said he still wasn’t ready to be together, which is fine, and I need to respect that—I do respect that! But I guess I just got my hopes up and I thought, ‘Maybe this all won’t be so bad,’ but then he got all weird and uncomfortable and it was my fault. And on top of that, most of my clothes are getting too tight, people are going to find out about all of this sooner or later, and Dad doesn’t even know! How am I supposed to tell Dad? Mom, I don’t know what to do and it’s only going to get worse!”

“Evan, honey, it’s going to be hard, but it’s not going to get worse,” she soothes, wiping away my tears once again. It feels like all I ever do is cry. “You’re seventeen and you shouldn’t have to be dealing with all this, but shit happens. What do you need me to do?”

“I just don’t want to be a failure,” I mumble. “Can you help me with that?”

“Of course. Evan, you aren’t a failure, you won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I think I do, you’re my kid.”

_There’s one thing you don’t know._

“So,” she continues, smiling warmly, “how about we go shopping this weekend and get you some maternity clothes? And then we can talk about telling your dad, but I want you to be ready.”

“Do you think he’ll be mad?”

She gets quiet, sucks her lips in. Talking about Dad never ends well, so I usually don’t bring it up. She rubs the back of her neck and lets out a tense sigh.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I wish I could give you an answer, but I just don’t know him… I don’t know if I ever did.”

A few beats.

A few breathes.

Seconds feel like minutes.

I feel butterflies in my stomach.

“Well, it’s late,” she breaks the silence. “I know you had a rough day, but you also skipped school—I got several emails from your teachers. Get some rest and tomorrow will be better.”

That night sleep doesn’t come easy. I spend the evening staring at the old glow stars above my bed. Most of them have died out, the weakest ones just barely making a presence. There were 100 stars in the pack. Mom and I fit 73 of them on my ceiling. The extra 27 I had hidden around the house. At the tender age of six, I thought it would be funny to hide stars in strange places, like inside the washing machine, under the computer desk, and behind the toilet. It wasn’t bothering anyone, most of the time at least, but Dad never found it amusing. Those were all eventually found and disposed of.

I recount the stars.

64.

Nine stars have fallen off in the past eleven years. Not too bad for scotch tape. Some stars make up constellations (Mom’s handiwork) and others are just placed haphazardly (my handiwork). All the stars for the Pisces constellation remain intact. I’m sure I could never actually spot it in the night sky, but Mom could probably find every star and tell you the name, history, constellation, and even what their favorite restaurant downtown is.

Sometimes I wish I knew more about stars. It’s something special, something that stands out. It’s also something people take interest in. No one wants to listen to me ramble on about trees for ten minutes, but some pretty girl with ombre hair can talk about how “Aries signs eat the most hot Cheetos” and everyone tunes in.

Connor is an Aries. I’m sure he probably doesn’t care.

I grab my phone from my nightstand, unlocking it to no new messages. My finger hovers just above Connor’s name and picture. I could text him right now with some bumbling apology. That would only make him mad. He doesn’t like it when people over apologize, even though he does it himself. So, I just lay there, reading his name over and over like it may change spellings or jump off the phone.

Suddenly, he’s typing, and three little dots are moving across the screen.

In a panic, as if he may crawl through my window or burst through my door any second, I throw the phone back onto my nightstand, burying my face in my pillow.

If I just go to sleep, tomorrow will be better.

_Tomorrow will be better._


	11. chapter ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see! Sorry for the wait. I've been getting distracted a lot and haven't had the motivation or focus to write. This chapter is a bit more filler, but Jared comes back into play and will become a bigger part of this story. Hope you enjoy and I can't wait to hear your feedback!

There is no text from Connor when I wake up, just the last conversation we had shining on the screen. All we did was confirm the appointment time. Beyond that, there is nothing new.

The absence of a text is only more anxiety inducing.

A note from Mom on the fridge almost makes up for it.

“Had to go into work early,” I read aloud to myself. “Lunch is in the fridge!"

True to the note, a lunchbox I haven’t used since middle school sits in the fridge. A soft thermos lunchbox shaped like the Mystery Machine, illustrated with the Mystery Incorporated bunch. I can’t even imagine where she found it. I just assumed it was lost, which may have been a purposeful move after some hazing from Jared in seventh grade. I shove the lunchbox in my backpack and run out the door. I have bigger things to worry about than being teased for a lunchbox.

I don’t expect that bigger thing to worry about to also be Jared.

“Long time, no see,” Jared says, appearing by my side right as I enter the school, as if he were waiting for me. He wraps an arm around my shoulders like he would with any of his camp friends. Shit. “How’ve you been, Hansen?”

“Uh, fine?” I say as if it were a question, trying to express confusion with every fiber of my being. I try to pull away toward my hall, but he holds fast. Jared may be smart, but he’s clueless when it comes to social cues. Yet something tells me he’s picking up my signals and deliberately ignoring it.

“Really? You aren’t in some new life crisis? You didn’t fall out of another tree?” he digs in with his voice but avoids eye contact. He’s leading me in the direction of the library.

“No!” I stammer. “And why would you care? You haven’t talked to me in over a month.”

“Well, you don’t talk to me either, so not entirely my fault.”

He leads me through the library doors, weaving through several bookcases, down to the lower level of the library, and seats me in a secluded corner. He finally looks me in the eyes and his are dead serious. I have never seen this expression on Jared Kleinman.

“What the fuck is going on, Evan?” he practically interrogates me, though he’s not very intimidating being that he’s 5’6” and has the physique of the Pillsbury Doughboy. I just have to play it cool. There’s no way he knows… right?

“Nothing is ‘going on,’ Jared,” I retort. “I have to get to my locker before—”

“One of my camp friends saw you and Connor Murphy together at À La Mode yesterday.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK._

“I wasn’t at À La Mode,” I lie, gripping the edge of my shirt.

“Yes, you were, around lunch time.”

“H-How would you know? And why, why would your camp friend also be there?” I stutter, knuckles turning white on my hem.

“He graduated last year and works there now.”

“S-still doesn’t prove I was there.”

Jared whips out his phone, swipes through a series of passwords and lock screen puzzles only he could remember, and pulls up a text. It’s a photograph that he received yesterday just after noon. The photo is surprisingly clear as Jared zooms in on two figures in a car.

Correction: as Jared zooms in on me and Connor all over each other in Zoe’s car.

The shot is through the windshield with a full view of both of us. I’m leaning over the gearshift, awkwardly smushed up against Connor. The photo is at just an angle where my entire torso is in view. Connor has one hand on my back, the other splayed across my belly. Our lips are pressed against each other in a rushed fashion.

I can’t stop staring at the _very_ obvious baby bump I’ve been ignoring.

I pull on my shirt in a futile attempt to loosen it.

My ears are on fire.

“So, you weren’t skipping school to make-out with Connor Murphy at À La Mode?” Jared interrupts my spiraling thoughts.

“We may, uh… have a thing…” I murmur, wrapping my arms around my middle.

“I don’t think one can just ‘have a thing’ with Connor Murphy,” Jared laughs. “’A thing!’ What? Is he blackmailing you into buying him crack?”

“He’s not on crack!”

“Oh. My. God. This is unbelievable. You know, people have been saying stuff about you two, but I thought, ‘There is no way.’”

“P-people have been… saying stuff?”

“Dude, people have been talking about you and Connor since you puked on him! Which may be a kink for you two, I don’t know.”

“It’s not—no—that isn’t—”

“What? So, you and Connor are together?”

“It’s none of your fucking business!” I exclaim a little too loudly. On cue, the library office door creaks open. We can’t see the main librarian from where we’re standing, but neither of us wants to deal with her.

“You’re feisty all of the sudden!” Jared giggles as I speed out one of the back doors and into a busy hallway. “We’ll talk more about this later, Hansen!”

I practically sprint to Connor’s locker praying that’s he’s there. The halls are still fairly empty, the school day still awhile away from starting, but the halls feel like they’re collapsing, and one person feels like three. It always feels like everyone is staring right at me, right through me.

_I wish I weren’t here. I wish I weren’t here. I wish I weren’t here._

Call it luck, call it fate, but sure enough Connor is at his locker. He’s rummaging through his messenger bag, in the process dropping a stack of books he had balanced in the crook of his elbow. I rush over and gather them up without a word. “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, “Until They Bring the Streetcars Back” by Stanley Gordon West, and a baby naming book. He snatches the books from my arms as soon as I’m upright again.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to have those out… I was just looking for something.”

He shoves the books in his locker before pulling out an envelope with yesterday’s ultrasound pictures. Nervous eyes scan the nearly empty hall and he decides it’s safe enough to tape a new picture to the back of his locker. Up goes the new picture right below the first one. A kidney bean baby next to a slightly lumpy somewhat human shaped baby. We just stand for a few long, silent seconds, staring at the sonograms tucked away in the back of his locker.

“Jared knows,” I blurt out without second thought. Connor tenses up.

“About...?”

“Us, just us… not the… baby… He doesn’t know about that.”

“Jesus Christ, Evan,” Connor chokes. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“It gets worse. One of his camp friends works at À La Mode. He saw us and got a picture of us in Zoe’s car.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I-I wish I was. It was our kiss, too, Connor, I feel like everything is closing in—”

“Ev, Ev, it’ll be… fine,” he says tensely, trying to be comforting. “I mean, it’s just us making out in Zoe’s car. Lots of kids skip school and fool around.”

“Yeah, but lots of kids aren’t trying to hide a pregnancy! He said people are talking and saying things and, and—"

He catches my hands as they pull at my shirt and pick at loose threads. He holds them still, his hands tight, but the pressure is comforting. The hall is starting to fill up more. He snatches the baby names book from his locker, shoving it into his bag and walking with me to the humanities hall.

“I’m sorry I was shitty yesterday,” he says, changing the subject. “I just don’t want you to have to deal with me on top of everything else. One day at a time.”

“I don’t know if I can do that anymore!” I snap. Several heads turn. Connor yanks me into an empty computer lab. I continue as if the interruption didn’t happen. “We keep saying ‘One day at a time,’ but I can’t do that! Jared knows about us! I feel bigger and bigger every fucking day! And if I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do tomorrow, or next week, or when I have the baby, how can I just ease in to today with this ‘One day at a time’ bullshit?”

He stares at me with wide, bewildered eyes. My heart pounds in my ears and I’m breathing hard enough to drain the Earth of its oxygen. Neither of us were prepared for that.

“I feel like we have this conversation every time we speak,” I continue. “Just a bunch of ‘I’m not ready’ and ‘One day at a time,’ and it just makes this so much scarier for me.”

“Then what do you want to do?” he asks. “How do you want to change this?”

That throws me for a loop.

“I… I don’t know,” I sigh. “I guess my whole life has been ‘I’m not ready’ and ‘One day at a time’ conversations… But it’s not just me that has to deal with it anymore.”

I look down at the bump pushing at my shirt, smoothing my hands down the front of it.

_It’s not just me that has to deal with it anymore._

“I haven’t even told my dad,” I confess. “Jared said people are talking… Everyone probably knows. We should just tell people, get it over with… At least some of the anxiety is lifted, right?”

“I think that’s the best thing to do,” Connor says, stepping closer. He rests a hand on my belly, rubbing small circles with his thumb. There’s a slight chuckle behind his closed lips. “I mean, you do look _very_ pregnant.”

I bat him in the arm. “I’m four months! I don’t look that pregnant!”

“I don’t know, you’re so short that—"

I slap a hand over his mouth, but can’t help smiling. He licks my palm. The perfect defense mechanism, as it never fails to make me pull away.

“So, what?” Connor continues. “Should we pull a Beyoncé-esque announcement to our collective Facebook following of 20 people?”

“I guess,” I shrug, trying to keep the casual tone, trying to ignore the anxiety still coursing through my veins. My hands are still shaky, still sweaty. I still have to survive through this day only to face Jared at the end of it, and he’ll probably have more questions and accusations than before.

“Hey, Evan… Whatever happens will happen, but I’m going to be right here for you the whole way… and her.” He squeezes my hand.

“When did you become so soft?”

“It’s punk to be soft.”

He smirks, trails past me towards the door, then disappears into the hall as if he’s some character in a movie. I catch up to him and his dramatics, reminding him we have the same first period. Walking through the halls is never easy, especially now. One extra person makes the entire school feel overcrowded. But surprisingly enough, there are butterflies in my stomach, and I can breathe a little easier.


	12. chapter eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back with an underwhelming chapter.

Jared texts me in third period.

“We’ll talk at lunch. You hide in the library, right?”

“Yeah.”

Sunglasses emoji. Thanks, Jared. That’s comforting.

Connor always makes it to our tucked away table before me, as if it’s scripted. He’s got his boots on the table, the heel locked on the edge. His jeans rise a bit, revealing beige and navy socks that read, “You crafty bitch.” The boots cover it, but there is an illustration of a girl cutting out paper dolls. He wore those socks that night in his basement. They ended up at the foot of the fireplace, haphazardly tossed away in a frenzied state. Connor removes his feet from the table, pulls out a chair for me.

“Did you get—”

Connor silently cuts me off, placing two chocolate milks on the table. I practically melt into the chair next to him.

“Thank you,” I smile, taking the milk cartons maybe too enthusiastically. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it all through class.”

“Chocolate milk?” he questions, making a funny face.

“Yeah,” I mumble, feeling my face turn red, “and peanut butter crackers…”

“I have Cheez-Its,” he offers.

“What kind?”

“White cheddar.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Well, I’m disgusting,” he remarks, “but you liked that.”

“And look what you did.”

He smiles, just barely showing his teeth. His nose scrunches up, causing his eyes to squint. Cute little crow’s feet line the corners of his eyes. Another rare expression on Connor’s face, but every fold, line, and freckle exactly where it was the last time. The expression drops quickly, but a small smile lingers on his lips, his nose, his tired, tired eyes. He leans back in his chair. With his sketchbook in hand, he glances up at me and I can’t help but startle myself and look away, turning redder by the second.

Silence falls over us, the only sounds being the scratching of his pencil on paper and my grossly audible swallowing as I down chocolate milk in a record setting panic.

And then Jared sits down across from us, smiling so big it’s practically a grimace.

“Hello, hello, freak and geek,” he greets. “It’s always fascinating to watch predator and prey mingle.”

Connor stops drawing, removes his feet from the table, entire body tensed. He presses his lips together, the skin going pale around the tight thin line. He doesn’t say anything, just glares at Jared. If looks could kill, Connor Murphy would be on death row.

“Tough crowd,” Jared continues, leaning back into the chair with his hands behind his head as if he were on beach chair in Florida, not a high school library in New York. “So… when’s the wedding?”

“Do you actually have something to ask her, or are you just going to continue with the Seinfeld shit?” Connor snaps, his voice low but sharp.

“I’m just curious about the story of you two. Evan Hansen, Connor Murphy. Both loners, losers, and poster children for ‘Mental Health Awareness.’ Evan Hansen, short and st-st-stuttery, who can’t even look a kindergartner in the eye, and Connor Murphy, tall and tragic, who we all thought would have committed an atrocity to humankind by now. Evan and Connor—”

“J-Just, just shut up, Jared!” I hiss. “We get it! We get it! _We get it!_ Connor and I had a fling! We had a class together and hung out a few times. That’s all it was!”

“A fling that ended when? Before or after skipping school and locking lips in the parking lot of À La Mode.”

“We’re not, like, together-together, we just have this… this,” I stammer, trying to find words. I don’t even know what Connor and I are, and yet I’m trying to explain it to Jared. “Agreement.”

Connor laughs.

Jared’s eyes go wide.

“So, he is blackmailing you!” he whispers in shock.

“Jesus Christ, do you really think that’s how the world works?” Connor asks, still smiling in disbelief. “Evan and I aren’t, well, dating. Sure, we have a thing going, but we’re not…”

His voice drops. He looks away. He almost doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But we’re not together, Jared,” he says, his face falling flat.

“Then what the fuck is up with you two?”

Connor looks at me with worried brows. My teeth dig into my lip, threatening to break skin. Jared’s gaze is fixated on me, but I can’t look him in the eyes.

“I’m pregnant?” I say as if it’s a question, slumping my shoulders and trying to curl up.

_It would be nice to just curl up into a leaf and fly off on the wind._

Jared’s face goes blank. He doesn’t make any jokes. He doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. He just sits forward, leaning on the table with her hands clasped together firmly. His eyes gaze off into nowhere as he quietly processes what he’s just been told.

Minutes pass.

There’s usually a joke by now. He just looks up slowly at Connor, an anger on his face I had never seen before. He opens his mouth, laughs cynically, then asks, “Did you… hurt her?”

“Go to hell, Kleinman,” Connor lashes out. “I—”

He stops suddenly, eyes shining, before grabbing his bag and bolting away, leaving me alone with Jared.

_What the fuck was that, Connor?_

“So, he assaulted you?” Jared asks, not stopping for a second to let me breathe and understand what just happened.

“No, Jared,” I try to say as calmly as I can. “He didn’t do anything bad. Everything was consensual, _asshole_.”

With what little composure I have left, I run off the same way Connor did, though less aggressive and with no grace whatsoever. In the hallway, there is no sign of Connor. One way leads to the cafeteria, the other leads out to back parking lot. Thinking like Connor, or any rational teenager low on the high school hierarchy, I make a beeline for the parking lot, only to run into Zoe Murphy emerging from the restroom. We stop before colliding, taking a moment to look each other over. Her eyes linger on my belly.

“Did you see where Connor—”

“No,” she says. “I don’t know where he went.”

Then we just stand there, staring at each other longer.

“If this were a movie, we would not pass the Bechdel Test,” she says, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Easiest test to fail,” I mumble.

“Easiest test to pass… Just, maybe leave Connor alone? Not to be a total bitch, but you can’t run after him after every tantrum.”

_She’s right._

I can’t help but glance at the exit to the parking lot. Is he expecting me to run out after him?

“We still have a half hour of lunch left,” Zoe says, her voice strained. She’s obviously uncomfortable with whatever proposal she’s thought up. “You wanna come eat with me?”

I hesitate.

“You totally don’t have to,” she backtracks, already heading back to the cafeteria. “I just thought you needed a break, but if—”

“Sure,” I say, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Sure, let’s have lunch together.”

I don’t know what the expect of Zoe’s friends; people cooler than me with outgoing personalities. I’ve seen their social media accounts. Facebooks full of relatable memes, Instagrams with heart shaped sunglasses and sorority girl worthy poses. It’s easy to assume who these girls are, but you never can never really guess who they are behind their Taylor Swift lyric captions. I have feared and loathed girls like this since infancy. Because I wasn’t one of them, no matter how hard I tried. No amount of social camouflage would earn me a spot in their clique.

Especially now.

But I try to hide the pained expression on my face as I slide into the bench next to Zoe. I slouch forward, head down, avoiding any and all eye contact. Zoe introduces me.

“This is Evan,” she says casually. “She’s a friend of Connor’s if you can believe it. This is Jesse, Kaitlynn, and Sami.”

She adds the last part in a strained mumble and what very little effort I had planned to put into meeting her friends is completely zapped out of me. I glance up at the small group of girls sitting across from us. From right to left sit Jesse Anderson, Kaitlynn McMann, and Sami Jackson. Jesse is a senior and has been in several of my AP classes. She’s the only one I can say I “know,” while the other two are juniors I’ve seen in jazz band. They all greet me in an awkward cacophony of welcomes.

“H-hi,” I mumble, trying to muster some volume. It just comes out in a tiny squeak. I clear my throat. Try again. “You, you are all in jazz band, right?”

“They are, but I’m not,” Jesse speaks first, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear. Her highlighter is enough to blind someone. “I couldn’t play an instrument to save my life.”

“Yeah, me either,” I sigh, unwrapping my PB&J and still avoiding eye contact. “I tried ukulele once and that was a disaster.”

“What girl hasn’t tried ukulele?” Sami laughs. “What song did you learn? Was it—”

“Riptide?” we finish the question together and I actually find myself falling into easy laughter.

“It’s like a curse,” Kaitlynn chimes in. “You listen to Riptide once and have to buy a ukulele and a polaroid camera or you disintegrate!”

Easy laughter. Again.

_Maybe this isn’t so bad._

“Well, I played ukulele before it was cool,” Zoe teased. “But the guitar is way cooler.”

“Please, you just suck up to Mr. Kirsch.”

“Do not!”

I fall into the group’s rhythm almost naturally as stories and jokes are told. I don’t have much to share, but what do share is met with enthusiasm. Before I know it, Sami presents the idea of a sleepover, and the two other girls immediately start making plans. Plans that include me. Zoe goes quiet, shifts her eyes. We make eye contact for a few moments before she seems to recognize my discomfort.

“I don’t know if Evan is comfortable with that,” she says, her voice halting their plans. “You guys just met her.”

“Yeah, but this is how we can get to know her,” Kaitlynn replies earnestly. “Have you ever been to a sleepover Evan?”

_How recent are we talking?_

“Not since elementary school,” I admit, thinking back to the last time I had a sleepover with anybody. It was Jared, of course, before our parents were concerned about boys and girls having sleepovers together.

_Maybe my mom should’ve been more concerned._

“Well, now we just have to have a sleepover, Zoe!” Jesse cries. “I know it’s totally kiddy, but it would be fun!”

“She’s Connor’s girlfriend, Jesse,” Zoe scolds, her face turning sour. “She’s not my friend. She’s not your friend. I only dragged her over here because my brother had another fucking meltdown and she always mopes about it and makes it worse!”

The shared feeling among the table is no less than the shock of a slap in the face. All four girls are staring at me. My throat closes. My nose stings. Tears threaten to make an appearance.

“Evan, I…” Zoe backtracks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. It’s just—”

“I’m pretty sure you meant it,” I sigh, trying to hold it all together just long enough to leave. She paws after me, but I yank my arms away before she has the chance to grab hold. Just five minutes left until lunch ends. Should be enough time to track down Connor.

And just make things worse.


	13. chapter twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to pop in with a trigger warning for some mild self harm and mentions of sexual assault, though nothing super descriptive and all just through rumors for the latter.

It’s not a hard task finding Connor. Sure enough, he’s sitting on the football field steps again, smoking a cigarette with several butts already burnt out by his feet. His hair is messed up, frizzier than usual, as if he’d been tearing at it. He stares off into space, French inhales. He sees me and his frown deepens. He shoves the lit end of his cigarette into his palm, biting his lip through a wince. I don’t sit next to him, just stand there, not knowing what to say.

“Thought you forgot about me,” he says, a sarcastic bite to his voice. “Did you and Jared go to the counselor, have some group therapy session?”

“No,” I answer quietly. “I, uh… well, I actually h-had lunch with Zoe and, um, her friends…”

“My condolences.” He plays with the blistered burns on his palm. A total of six cigarette butts sit at his feet, including the recently put out one. “Surprised you made it out alive. Piranhas.”

“They were nice, I guess… Zoe, well, she freaked out. She, uh… she told them I was your girlfriend… and that I mess everything up…”

He pulls his lips tight, looks away. His fingers continue to pick at his burn, peeling away dead skin, scratching at the raw flesh under it. Blood beads up from the burns as he just digs into them further. His nails are freshly painted, not yet chipped. I grab his hands, mindful of the open wounds on his palm and just stand there, silent, caressing them. He just stares off into space, face blank.

“Hey,” I whisper, giving his uninjured hand a soft squeeze. “It’s punk to be soft.”

He pulls his hands away, one reaching into his back pocket, the other placing itself on my belly. He holds up his phone, makes a few thumb movements. A camera click sounds from the speaker and he smiles to himself.

“Our big announcement?” he asks, showing me the photo.

“That could be anyone,” I giggle, placing a hand over his.

“My nails, your obsession with stripes; that’s enough identification.”

The late bell rings.

_That’s another attendance email to Mom._

Connor rises from his seat on the stairs, takes my hand.

“So, my family used to go to this orchard all the time when I was little,” he starts as we walk to class. The bite is back in his voice, a brew of tense comfort and easy resentment. He’s briefly mentioned the orchard before, but there was always anger with it. “But it was closed for a while, funding issues. My mom saw that it’s reopening next week, but with a pumpkin patch, too… What do you say? You want a little forced family fun with the Murphys?”

“That… that sounds… unpleasant.”

I think back to dinner that one evening.

How Cynthia cried for her son’s future.

_“My baby’s future is gone…”_

How Larry stood disappointed in his son’s failure.

_“How are you even going to care for a kid? You don’t even take care of yourself!”_

“I know,” he sighs. “If it helps, they aren’t mad at you… my parents, that is. I’m still deep in the shithole, but Mom always asks about you.”

“O-oh?”

“She’s always asking things, like, if you’re showing or if you need anything…”

“W-what do you tell her?”

He goes quiet, shrugs his shoulder in an awkward and jerky fashion. It’s safe to assume he doesn’t say much to her. I imagine Cynthia slipping through the door of his room with a wide smile and a glass of orange juice, trying to appeal to a teenage son she knows nothing about. She tries to be casual, but proceeds to badger him with questions about his ‘girlfriend,’ to which he responds that I’m not his girlfriend because, well, I’m not. She keeps asking more questions, probably sitting on the edge of his bed. He continues to avoid them, pulling his legs into his body, making himself smaller. Every answer is half-assed and vague. Cynthia doesn’t get any information.

The air in the room grows cold and uncomfortable. Connor and Cynthia cannot meet each other’s eyes. Cynthia eventually exits.

But who knows how it really goes. Connor gives away so little about his parents.

We reach my next class in no time, lingering outside the door. I fixate on his burned hand, lightly playing with his fingers, bending them as if he’s a little puppet I control.

“You should go to the nurse,” I say, curling his fingers into a loose fist, trying not to irritate the skin any further. With my head still down, my eyes on my shoes, I back away, slinking into the classroom. He’s still frozen in place as I close the door behind me.

/\/\/\

Though Connor and I have a collective online following of 23 people, news travels fast.

He posts the picture on Instagram and Facebook with a simple caption (“16 weeks”) and almost immediately comments roll in, family members share, and more and more people request to follow and friend me. Zoe shares the image on her accounts (with the caption “My niece💕🍼”), tagging me as if she cares. At least her followers think she cares.

The next week has the whole school buzzing.

“Did you hear Evan Hansen is pregnant?”

“It’s Connor Murphy’s baby… _That Connor Murphy_.”

“I guess some people take what they can get.”

“I heard he raped her, or is, like, blackmailing her.”

“What if she’s just faking it for attention? I mean, nobody paid attention to her before.”

Over the next week, the student body splits into two groups: those who want to get as close as possible for the “juicy deets,” and those who avoid me at all costs as if they’ll get pregnant just standing in my proximity. Giddy girls invade my privacy, asking questions I wouldn’t begin to know how to answer and trying to touch my stomach as they repeat the phrase, “You’re glowing!” over and over. But I’m not the only one that gets harassed.

The sharks that usually tail Connor now smell fresh blood. They start to circle more closely, leaving notes on his locker, sneaking snarky comments in class and through the halls. The rumors surrounding him only grow darker with each day, and soon the whole school views him as even more of a predator and villain than before. The resident “School Shooter” has taken on new titles.

“I’m gonna drop out!” Connor yells. “I fucking hate it here, Evan!”

He paces the asphalt of the parking lot, absolutely seething. Few people remain, lingering by their cars and watching him meltdown. We’ve been here for nearly fifteen minutes. Nothing I’ve done has relieved any of the pain. He tears at his hair, twists his bracelets, yanks on his fingers. His cheeks are a violent red, soaked with angry tears.

“I can’t go a fucking day without some new bitch saying I assaulted her!” he continues to broadcast with a booming voice. “No, I can’t even go a single fucking class! The bell rings and suddenly the loudspeaker is all, ‘Connor Murphy please come to the principal’s office.’ It’s been over a week. Over a fucking week and it just keeps happening!”

I just watch him ping back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between the two yellow lines, never stepping out of the box. The onlookers have settled in, leaning against their cars with watchful eyes. I can’t help but feel naked, exposed. Mimicking Connor, I twist at my fingers, now free from the cast.

“I just can’t do another day, Evan,” he stops, choking on sobs. “I can’t do another fucking day of bullshit accusations, bullshit post-it notes, and bullshit everything! I can’t fucking do it, Evan!”

He drops to the ground, wiping his face. Hiccups overtake his words, shaking his entire fame. He picks at his palm again, the burns just barely healed. Every day he picks at them, reopens them, aggravates them.

“Maybe you can switch to online courses?” I suggest. I’ve already suggested it once, but I don’t know what to say. All I can do is just sit on the curb, helpless.

_Please don’t switch to online courses. I need someone here._

“Yeah, my parents will love that,” he snarks. He bites his lip, takes a breath. “God, I’m an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole.”

“Yes, I am! You’re the one that actually has to be pregnant. I’m just being a bitch.”

He rips off a large piece of skin from his palm, making a pained face.

“You don’t deserve a piece of shit like me,” he says, shoving himself to his feet. He turns his back to me, walking away. “You’re better off without me.”

“Connor!” I shout after him, shoving myself up from the curb. “Connor, stop it!”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look back. He just keeps walking. I grab his limp arms, pulling him back. Like a gangly ragdoll, he stumbles back, turns to face me, but avoids all eye contact. I open my mouth to speak, try to find words to console him, to get through to him. Nothing comes out. My mouth is dry. My throat is tight. There’s a twinge in my stomach.

_The butterflies._

Little fluttering movements I chalked up to anxiety or excitement, as any normal person would, but upon telling my mother, I learned that was just the baby wiggling around, not yet strong enough to kick. She moves almost every day now.

“She’s moving,” I murmur to him, not knowing what else to say. “You can’t feel her yet, but she’s already wiggling around and swinging her arms and legs.”

A few beats.

He looks up at me slowly.

“How long has she been moving?” he asks.

“A f-few weeks, but I didn’t realize that was her at first. It just felt like anxiety, or like, butterflies?”

“Does it, like, hurt?”

“No!” I giggle. He smiles, looks away again.

“Can I?”

“Yeah… I mean, you, uh, put her there… W-why are you asking now?”

“Just in case,” he shrugs, reaching out a tentative hand. He eyes, tired and swollen from tears, light up as soon as he’s holding me. “It’s… probably silly, but I could just stand here for hours holding you… holding her…”

“Well, tomorrow is Friday… pumpkin patch with your family… maybe I could spend the night?”

“Yeah, because Cynthia and Larry will let that happen.”

“I’m already pregnant,” I say. “What more can we do?”

“Make a twin?”

“Gross.”

He doesn’t laugh, just smiles a distant and sad smile.

“Pumpkin patch tomorrow,” he sighs. “After school on a Friday. Imagine will be doing that with her someday… I want to take a lot of pictures tomorrow if that’s okay… I just want to remember it, whatever happens.”

“I’d like that.”

He pulls me into him, wrapping his long, long arms around me. I melt into his chest, breathing every bit of him in as we stand there in the middle of the road like some forgotten statue.


	14. chapter thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than my usual chapters, but I had a lot planned, so I hope y'all enjoy it, like it, maybe even leave a comment! Thank you for reading.

The next morning, I wake up to Mom standing at the foot of my bed, giddily holding Walmart bags. Her hair is thrown into a tangled bun. Dark spots encircle her eyes. I fell asleep before she got home, but it’s safe to say she did not sleep last night. Despite it all, she still smiles brightly, trying to keep an optimistic outlook on the life we live.

“Mom?” I yawn, running my fingers through my own tangled hair. I got her honey-blonde curls, but my own hair is thick and unruly like Dad’s.

“So, you know I had to work late last night,” she starts, her mouth moving at the speed of life, “but I was thinking ‘Evan doesn’t really have any maternity clothes.’ I know that things are tight right now, and they’re going to get tighter with the baby, but I ran to Walmart and picked out some things you might like.”

Her quick banter mixed with my sluggish morning thoughts do not mix well, and by her expression, it’s safe to say I have a very confused look on my face. She plops the bags down and starts pulling out clothes.

“I know that you like your polos and button downs, but I figured you may want to try something more comfortable,” she continues. “I got you some jeans, a pair of khakis, a few tee shirts, and a dress! Oh, and some maternity underwear. It’s not a lot and we’ll probably have to get new clothes in a month, but I just want you to be comfortable.”

“I-in a month?” I panic as I catch up.

“Oh, no! Honey I was just joking of course! These will last awhile! And I can always bust out the old sewing machine, try to do some tailoring.”

She hasn’t sewn since I was in second grade.

I start sifting through the clothes, shaking off the last of my sleep. As per the usual, she went with several striped tee shirts, all in shades of blue and green. The dress is a light blue as well, but has small white polka dots as opposed to stripes. There are two pairs of jeans and a pair of khakis, all with elastic waistbands of some sort. The pair of khakis has the elastic where the front pockets would be, but everyone knows that women aren’t allowed to have front pockets. Large front pockets are obviously a status symbol of masculinity.

I start gathering them up, ready to throw them on my desk chair to be ignored for a week before I throw them in my dresser, but a stark black shirt catches my eye. Breaking from the theme, the shirt is a Halloween tee decorated with a vinyl ribcage across the front. Travelling down the shirt is another x-ray figure, a little cartoon skeleton baby with a goofy little smile. It’s the kind of goofy maternity shirt you see suburban moms wearing only to tease them behind their backs.

Now, I am the suburban mom.

_“Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” (Robert Oppenheimer)_

_…_

_Okay maybe that’s a little dramatic._

“Isn’t it cute?” she asks, eyebrows raised up to her hairline, expectant of a positive response.

“S-sure,” I stammer, not really knowing how to feel. Everyone knows I’m pregnant. Still no need to broadcast it. Her face falls. “I mean, yeah—yes—of course it is!”

She frowns, challenging that statement silently.

“I-I’ll wear it today,” I say. “I have that pumpkin patch thing with the Murphys today… I may stay the night if that’s okay?”

She sighs, wads up the plastic bags. “Sure, just don’t do anything stupid.”

“No promises?”

Mom laughs, snatching a shirt and throwing it over my face, then exiting the room. I hold up the Halloween shirt once more, sighing to myself, then change into it. It’s comical looking at myself in my mirror. I turn to the side, smooth my hand down the front of my belly.

_At 17 weeks, your baby is the size of a large onion._

_I don’t even like onions._

Little Baby Murphy immediately twitches around, following the script in my head.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “It’s really dorky… even for me.”

I could change, but I already told Mom I’d wear it today. I grab a sweater from my closet, a knitted button up sweater, a soft lilac color. A quick glance at my closet reveals that there are little to no warm colors to be seen. Whether it’s a conscious style choice or just an accumulation of garments over the years, I don’t know. It can almost be like camouflage in a way. Where I don’t blend in socially, I can at least blend into the background with cool colors. I button up the sweater and as a result, only look more pregnant.

_Well, you’re not going to get any smaller from here on out._

I brush it off, push the thought to the back of my head. Just get ready for the rest of the day. Put pants on. Brush teeth. Make bed.

“Come get breakfast!” Mom yells from the kitchen. “I’m driving you this morning!”

“I’m coming!” I shout back, grabbing a separate backpack and shoving in clothes, toiletries, and other nightly necessities. Staying the night at the Murphys…

Woohoo…

Mom drives me to school, rattling on about new hospital stories and updates in her class. I just stay quiet, playing with the hem of my sweater as more flutters happen inside me. She asks me how I’m doing at least a million times and I swear up and down I’m fine.

_I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine._

When we arrive, I sprint out of the car without a goodbye or a glance. She calls after me, but I just ignore her, slumping my shoulder, tucking my head down. Connor reached his breaking point yesterday. I don’t know when I’ll reach mine, but dread is just growing and growing and growing inside of me.

_Hehe. Dread could be a good name for a baby girl._

_Jesus Christ, I’m a terrible mother already._

I hurry down the hall, eyes following me, whispers bouncing off of me. The crowds are spares, yet they part like the Red Sea as I just try to make it to my locker. My locker, which is covered in sticky notes. Phone numbers, slurs, questions, and much more decorate my locker like a city alley when festivals and concerts are happening. Some of them are clever and can almost be justified. Others just hurt. There’s no fancy or intricate way to describe it. They just hurt.

I clear my locker, wadding the notes into a colorful and offensive ball. The crinkling of the paper is amplified with each crunch, the bends and folds of it becoming sharp as my grip tightens. I twist the wad, tear the wad, squeeze the wad until there’s a wad in my throat and I can’t breathe around it. I keep at it. Twisting. Tearing. Squeezing. Twisting. Tearing. Squeezing.

_Twisting. Tearing. Squeezing._

Then I stop.

Everything stops.

I can breathe again. Barely.

I drop the crumpled wad of paper, kicking off to the side. Open my locker. Grab my books. Store my overnight bag. Shut my locker. Walk down the hall. Find Connor’s locker. Connor isn’t there. Wait. Wait. Wait. Stare at the clock. Two minutes have passed. It felt longer. Wait. Wait. Wait.

_Wait._

_Wait._

_Wait._

He finally shows up, catching my gaze and giving a small smile. Words, spit, and breath all catch in my throat and all I can do is stand there, choking and coughing. Connor hurries over, starts patting my back lightly.

“Jesus, are you okay?” he asks, brushing my hair behind my ear.

“Y-yeah,” I choke, trying to catch my breath. Tears linger in my eyes, threatening to spill. I can’t tell if they’re brought on by the coughing or by, well, everything else. “I just… choked on, uh, my spit… Uh, hi…”

“Hi…”

“H-how… are you?” I ask sheepishly, still trying to regain what little composure I had to begin with.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, seeing right through my pitiful attempt at starting a conversation. His grip on my arm is firm, but not too tight. Tired, yet piercing eyes stare out from under his furrowed eyebrows.

“N-nothing,” I lie, trying to force a smile. “Why would something be wrong?”

He let’s go of my arm, doesn’t press any further, doesn’t say anything. He just continues his usual routine. Opens his locker. Hangs his coat. Exchanges his books. Stops. Stares at the two pictures tucked away at the back. Closes the locker. Looks at the books in his hands. Shoves the baby names book in his backpack. Turns to me. Opens his mouth. Furrows his brows again. Makes a face. Says nothing.

He breaks our eye contact, glancing down at my chest. An eyebrow raises in a confusion. On instinct, I cross my arms, but the action only makes my chest hurt.

_I fucking hate being pregnant._

“What’s on your shirt?” he asks.

_Oh, so he isn’t staring at my boobs._

“Oh, it’s, uh,” I mumble, moving my hands to the hem of my sweater. I start undoing the button. “It’s a skeleton.”

His face lights up in a smile rarely seen. As my own tee shirt is revealed, his unzips his jacket, revealing his own skeleton tee shirt shit, though his doesn’t have a baby at the bottom. Just a ribcage. He laughs a little, still smiling—no, _beaming_ —and just waits for me to say something, to respond.

I just start crying. Connor tries to speak, tries to say something, but I shush him.

“I’ll see you in class,” I whimper through sobs, shoving past him.

_I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine._

Instead of going to class, I make a detour to the bathroom. I can just shut myself away in a stall and cry and mope and wait until I have to put on a brave face for a stupid pumpkin patch. I’ve got books and lunch in my backpack. I can put an “Out of Order” sign on the door. No one has to know.

_That’s so stupid._

I splash some water on my face, confront myself in the mirror. I was never a thin girl. I always had an “inch to pinch,” as Mom would say. To say I didn’t care would be a lie, because I did. Growing up a girl automatically makes you life a competition. Comparisons are endless as friends, family, even strangers comment on the way you look, how smart you are, how “the other girls only bully you because they’re jealous.”

I don’t think anyone is jealous of me.

I never accepted who I am, inside or out; I merely tolerated. I tolerated being awkwardly sized with large hips and a short frame. I tolerated frizzy hair that just couldn’t be styled. I tolerated being unable to speak up in class or make friends. I tolerated existing as who I was, but I never accepted it.

Toleration took years to build up, and now any minuscule ounce of respect I had for myself is torn away as everything about me gets bigger. My boobs, my hips, my face, my stomach. My anxiety, my depression, my fears, my inevitable financial debt. My loneliness as I yearn for the emotionally and physically unavailable, with no constant, reliable person other than the five ounces of flesh nudging me from the inside.

_I’m not a mother, why did I go through with this?_

The first bell rings. Five minutes to class. I scrub my face, try to hide the red patches on my cheeks and the bags under my eyes. I button up me sweater, take a deep breath, put on a brave face. Time to go to class.

/\/\/\

Cynthia Murphy’s car is nice, but it’s not really built for more than four people, unless the person sitting in the middle seat has the hips of a child.

Which I don’t.

But somehow I still end up in the middle seat. Connor sits to my left. Zoe to my right. Larry is driving, mumbling profanities at every traffic inconvenience, though not quiet enough to be drowned by the radio. Cynthia is in the passenger seat, though she’s turned around facing us, a smile on her face. She’s been sitting like this for five minutes, not saying a single word. Zoe plays on her phone. Connor dozes off, head resting in his palm.

“Evan, it’s so nice to see you,” she hums, maintaining intense eye contact. “You look wonderful. How far along are you?”

“Oh, uh, about seventeen weeks,” I say, my hands folded in my lap. “I’m already, um, starting to, uh, feel her.”

“Her? Oh, Larry we’re having a granddaughter!” Cynthia beams, grabbing her husband’s shoulder. Larry spooks like a wild animal, inadvertently swerving the car. Horns sound off around us. Zoe’s phone flies out of her hand. Connor is awoken as his head slams into the window. My seatbelt tightens around me, knocking my breath away.

The Murphys erupt into loud arguing.

The GPS at the front of the car says we have one hour and 27 minutes until we reach the orchard turned pumpkin patch.

I try to catch my breath, rubbing my belly slowly.

_We’re in for a ride._

“Quiet!” Cynthia screams so loud I can feel the pain of her vocal cords. “We have a guest with us, so can we please get along for this car ride, then we can all go our separate ways at the orchard!”

“Two months ago, you hated Evan, and now she’s our guest?” Zoe yells, then puts on a sarcastic persona. “Way to go, Cynthia! Mother of the year!”

“Zoe Estelle Murphy, you will not talk to your mother like that,” Larry scolds, glaring at her through the rearview mirror.

“Connor talks like that to all of us all the time!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Connor interrupts, still rubbing the knot on his head. “I forgot you were Little Miss Perfect.”

“At least I didn’t get a girl pregnant!” Zoe hisses, leaning over me.

“You’re just mad that you aren’t the center of attention for once,” Connor seethes back, also leaning me.

“As if! You’re always the center of attention; I barely exist in this family!”

“Bullshit!”

“If Evan weren’t pregnant, she wouldn’t stay with you.”

“Fuck you, Zoe!”

“I have to pee!” I shout over the battle happening over me. At least it’s true, I do really have to pee.

“Perfect, because I need gas,” Larry sighs, pulling off the highway and into a gas station. Before anyone can say anything else, I run into the gas station, taking my sweet time.

Five minutes later, I return with a chocolate milk only to find Cynthia is now sitting in my spot, holding both Connor’s and Zoe’s hands as if they were toddlers.

“Evan, I think it’s best you sit up front,” she says. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer any more stress.”

_Lady, my whole life is stress._

So, I sit up front and in complete silence for the rest of the ride. The radio doesn’t play. Connor and Zoe no longer fight. Cynthia doesn’t try to talk to me anymore. Even Larry doesn’t grumble to himself. Complete silence.

Then we arrive and the real fun starts.

Cynthia corrals us like farm animals, telling all of us to “smile” and “have fun!” She starts spouting out ideas for pumpkin carving, pumpkin pie, roasted pumpkin seeds. Which gets her on a tangent of healthy eating and suddenly Larry, Connor, and Zoe have disappeared and it’s just me, Cynthia, and her gluten free manifesto. I pretend I’m interested, nodding so much I probably look like a bobblehead, but she continues on.

I never thought I’d be four months pregnant, sitting on a hay bale with Cynthia Murphy as she tells me about gluten free muffins.

But by some miracle, Connor shows up…

With a perfectly round pumpkin zipped up under his jacket and a dumb and crooked smile on his face.

“I think you wear it better than I do,” he chuckles, supporting the pumpkin as it starts to slip out from his jacket.

“Are you making fun of me?” I ask, tears threatening to appear once again.

“No! Oh, God, no!” he stammers. “I thought it would be cute, or funny… I feel really bad about… earlier.”

I push myself up from the hay (with a little bit of a struggle), standing face to face with him, my belly and his pumpkin just lightly bumping against each other. I look up at him, brush his long hair behind his ears. Those goofy ears that stick straight out.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

“No,” I whisper back.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss into my lips. His lips are chapped and practically torn to shreds, tasting slightly of iron from the spots of dried blood. I kiss him back with my own chewed up lips. He pulls away, cutting it short.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

“We’ll figure out,” I say, patting his pumpkin. I allow myself to laugh, to smile, to breathe. “I think the pumpkin looks cute on you.”

He looks away, cheeks turning pink. I look behind me, only to see Cynthia with her phone out, probably having snapped a million photos.

_Oh, well._

Connor sees her too, but rather than picking a fight we her, he just hands her his pumpkin before taking my hand and whisking me away. We stumble through the pumpkin patch, trying to be mindful of the many children around us. Connor trips over a few. I frantically murmur apologies. Connor keeps moving forward, pulling me along with him. He’s not even going that fast, but I’m already getting tired.

“Connor,” I try to get out between breaths, “I can’t… keep up… with you!”

“Come on, we’re almost there,” he says, slowing down and pulling me closer to him. “The orchard part isn’t open yet, but I’m sure we can’t get through the gate.”

“Wha-what?”

We stop in front of a chain link fence, several “No Trespassing” signs strewn across. Beyond the fence is an overgrown orchard, the trees heavy with apples. The grass is up to my knees and natural wildlife has almost completely taken over. Another sign hangs on the fence, near a gate, boasting about the orchard reopening soon.

“I wonder if it’s still here,” Connor murmurs to himself, pacing the fence. We’ve left the pumpkin patch far behind us now. The other Murphys are nowhere to be seen. I hear the shuffling of grass and metal. “Found it!”

Connor is holding back a corner of the fence, revealing an opening into the orchard. He motions me to go through. I don’t budge.

“We used to come here a lot when I was a kid,” he says, pulling back the fence a little further. “This is the back of the orchard, but before there was a pumpkin patch, there was this great big field. I would sneak away from Mom and Dad with Zoe and we’d sneak through this hole and just race each other across the field.”

He motions me through again. This time, I get down to my knees and squeeze through, the fence grazing against my hips and catching my sweater. Connor frees it, pushing me through, then slips through himself with great ease. He’s not carrying extra cargo.

Once we’re through the gate, we travel through the abandoned orchard. Very little light shines through the overgrown trees. We make our way through the long grass, tripping over apples and tree roots, until we get to a little clearing with several wooden benches and a fire pit.

“Y-you don’t usually see that in orchards,” I say, taking a seat on one of the benches.

“Yeah, guess it was their touch of ‘poisunality,’” he says as if he were from the thickest parts of Manhattan. He sits down next to me, pulling my onto his lap, laying his head on top of mine. A few moments of silence as birds chirp from their nests and squirrels zip through the trees. He takes a breath, the calmest, sturdiest breath I’ve heard from him. “I think I’m ready to be your boyfriend… but only if you want that.”

I pull away from his arms, adjusting so that I’m still sitting on his lap, but this time facing him. I can feel my brows furrowed and tight as I bite down on my lip.

_This is what you wanted._

“I think I do want that,” I say, relaxing into him.

The sunlight is warm on my back as Connor pulls me into him.

_I love him._


End file.
